


Skin New, Hands True, My Hands All Over You

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, a bit of angst, harry is a lovesick wreck, oh that's a tag too, so much pining, they share that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: Harry designs wedding cakes, so of course meeting blissfully happy couples every day is part of his job description. Unfortunately, it's caused Harry to perpetually hope each new day is the one he'll find love, too. That is, until Harry realises everything he's ever wanted is right under his nose in the shape of his best friend, Louis. But predictably, Harry only comes to this epiphany when Louis starts seeing someone else. And this is not a John Hughes movie as far as Harry is aware. Everyone else is pretty sure, though. Featuring a heavy dose of pining, copious amounts of alcohol, drunk dialing that results in a situation reminiscent of Rachel Green's, a ginger cat that likes to interrupt intimate moments, and a Halloween party that changes everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Skin New, Hands True, My Hands All Over You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117688) by [myholylarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myholylarry/pseuds/myholylarry)



> Hiiiii lovelies! :)
> 
> I still have WIP's galore, but I was determined to finish this one and I have so, here, have this. *holds up flower*
> 
> Okay, I've had the party scene in my drafts for ages, and so I wrote a friends to lovers fic around it, but it's been so long that I've had this in progress, that I'm just going to post this now or I never will! So if at least one person enjoys reading it then it's been worth the time I wasted on it, lordy lmao. 
> 
> (This could have been a lot shorter but I just kept on going. sorry, hah!) (And there isn't actually a whole lot of wedding cakes featured unfortunately.)
> 
> But anyway, I hope it's enjoyable! :) xx
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes! *insert regular disclaimer* 
> 
> Title is from MFEO: Part II: You Can Breathe by Jack's Mannequin.

 

"This is not going well," Harry mumbles to himself, because Liam certainly isn't listening.

Harry has been impassively staring at his wedding cake design for the last twenty minutes now.

His customer's cake, that is. Sadly, it's not his wedding, and his mouth pouts over that fact, as it so often does. Harry absently shading in the miniature brides that will be perched atop it, leisurely slurping the last of his caramel macchiato, blinking languidly as he continues to half-arse this sketch of the three tier salted caramel and coconut wedding cake he’s been commissioned to make.

He's in the midst of trying to decide whether lavender or a softer lilac would best compliment the darker shade of the main decorations.

Liam's been no help, apparently having decided they all look the same, but what does he know? Nada. There's like a thousand shades of purple, and they all represent an entirely different mood. Honestly.

The coffee table where his boots are perched, is a mess of colouring pencils, stacks of paper, sketches and his recipe journal, currently as muddled as his mind is, but he’s satisfied with his minimal bows and the marzipan shaped hearts that he’s intricately drawn in. His bottom tier's presentation leaves something to be desired, though, and his fonts today are atrocious.

Harry has felt a tad off all week, really, his designs unimaginative and average at best for a while now. If anything, the transition of autumn blossoming into winter is supposed to be his inspirational season, the time of year when Harry's creative juices really get flowing.

So far it's looking grim.

Harry might be mildly depressed at the situation. He can't figure out why he's been feeling so empty lately. Perhaps he has that sadness syndrome, but he's never had it before. Maybe they should get a cat. Not that it's relevant to Harry's work, but a cat might cheer him up. Him and Louis have wanted one for ages anyway.

Still, as tired and done as he is with this particular project, Harry is content to laze about a bit longer, listening to the gusty winds tap and brush against the glass of the front windows of this coffee shop, prettily framed by the soft gleam of golden fairy lights.

Harry loves it at this time of the day. He’s nearly fallen asleep here several times this week, helplessly lulled into a brief doze to the whirring of the coffee machines, the bubbling and the screeching that slowly dwindles down the nearer it approaches evening.

Loves it when there’s only one more hour or so left until close, the quiet crooning of retro playlists humming quietly in the background, and the scent of coffee beans and sickly sweet syrup festers in the cosy, comforting atmosphere while the cold snap brews outside, the indigo sky settling into a dark velvety canvas, dotted with bright stars.

It’s a pretty nice bubble here, locked away from the chaos and noise and the bullshit that happens.

But even with all of this, this perfect setting, Harry stills feels wistful, plagued with this awful longing in his chest.

Longing for what, though? Harry doesn't even know, only knows it's there.

It's annoying.

It stunts his creativity.

Unhappiness isn’t exactly a good recipe for making wedding cakes, you know.

Autumn is supposed to be the point at which he goes mad with making all kinds of festive, seasonal cookies and cakes and loafs and other baked treats. Louis says he’s going to make his stomach pudgy. Harry doesn’t think that’s a bad thing at all. Louis just looks so cute when he has a soft tummy, and Harry likes to baby him when he tells him so, cooing and squeezing him mercilessly until he’s wriggling and squirming on the stool as he watches Harry test bake, dutifully whisking egg whites for him (that Louis makes him demonstrate for him literally every time), indignant and practically falling off it, and Harry will nuzzle his face while Louis sits there like a disgruntled kitten.

Harry’s probably the cat in that one gif he’s seen online. It’s of a small cat (Louis) pawing the air and whining cutely, and then the larger cat (Harry) snatches the smaller cat in for a cuddle to settle it. His cheeks ache when he pictures it. He could quite literally die of the cute. Louis’ simply the definition of ‘cute’ in the dictionary. There should be a picture of him below it. It’s just a fact. That’s got nothing to do with Harry's biased opinion. But, anyway. This isn't about Louis, it's about Harry's lack of creative inspiration. 

He's a cake designer, for god's sake. This is supposed to be easy for him. Still, though, even if his cakes are going terribly, Harry is in his element in other ways.

Like, he gets to bundle up in layers, all snug and warm, and he likes the soft pink hue the early wintry cold gives people’s cheeks, the frosty mornings and the rarity of snow (even if the flakes barely even settle on the ground for five minutes. He is a winter baby, after all.)

But the order, thankfully, isn’t needed for another two months, so he has plenty of time to get the design sorted, and re-discover his flare. Monica at the bakery will be more than happy to take this one on if Harry runs into too many orders at once, and yes. Harry calls her Chef Bing because he can’t resist. And because it isn't needed asap, it's why he also has a few other non-related tabs open.

He absently licks the foam off his lips, blindly knocking Liam’s shoe away, which has just unceremoniously landed on top of his thigh, and lets the pleasant warmth of the frothy beige liquid soothe the chill in his chest, the two of them tucked away in the far corner, comfortably lounging on one of the forest green cushioned sofas.

“Li _am_ ,” Harry sings. “Do you think you could order me another one, please?” He waves a hand in front of a faraway Liam. “Or I could just finish yours?” Because his attention is currently elsewhere on a brunette girl with bright red lipstick on, hair spotlessly sleek, sitting quietly on a chair by the window, with a very nice black coat draped over the back of it. (Hm, Harry might get him to ask her where she bought it.)

Harry’s curious eyes dart to and fro betwixt the young woman and his Liam.

His good, sweet friend Liam, who’s more like a shielding older brother, and who hasn’t let his eyes wander from her since she walked in, as she tapped continuously on her IPhone, taking the occasional selfie and answered a phone call.

That she’s just now ended.

Liam’s side stiffens against Harry’s thigh, watching with shy, unsure eyes.

Harry’s also been scrolling through her Facebook and Instagram accounts on his phone on and off while he’s been sketching for the last ten minutes.

Harry smirks. “Her name is Sophia. She’s studying fashion, loves photography and has one dog named Josie,” he smiles, maybe a little smugly, his thumb and forefinger pinching his bottom lip, feeling particularly pleased with himself. Liam’s been pining after her for the last month.

“Harry!” Liam whispers with wide, hazel brown eyes, gripping Harry’s bicep which is clad in a claret, loose cotton jumper, a cream knit scarf tied around his pale neck. “I told you to stop doing that. It’s intrusive. Not to mention creepy,” he adds, a crease between his serious brows.

Harry frowns, pursing his lips tightly. “What? It’s just browsing, Liam. It’s called the internet? It’s this technological invention that’s quite popular, you know? You should look that up.”

Liam tilts his head, giving him one of his _looks_. One that means he doesn’t appreciate Harry’s sarcasm. His loss.

“Come on. Practically everybody has an account on nearly every kind of social media platform these days. We’re millennials. It’s like a rite of passage, or something. Though I don’t get Snapchat. I fail to see the point of that one,” Harry says with distaste. The thing is stupid. Who can be bothered with pictures and videos that are blink-and-you-miss-it? Pointless. “Besides, I use it for good things, Liam.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, doubtful. “Oh, yeah? What are these ‘good things’ you speak of, then?”

“Like. Finding people their soulmate,” Harry says, sitting up and lifting his chin, proud.

“Who do you think you are? Emma Winehouse?” Liam chuckles.

“It’s Woodhouse,” he deadpans. “But I’m impressed you have a clue about Jane Austen’s characters. “ He gives Liam a pat on the back. “And no, I just like helping people find dates. It’s fun. Call it a hobby.”

Harry feels a fulfilled sense of accomplishment when he manages to set up two well-matched people up on a successful date, and finding people their other halves has earned him the nickname 'Cupid' amongst his friends, (more to take the piss than anything) but he does work at a boutique bakery that makes  _wedding_   _cakes_ , so of course Harry ends up meeting many blissfully happy couples every day.

It’s a bit of a kick in the teeth that he’s not half of one yet, but he fancies himself an expert in knowing what kinds of people match, and are bound to fall in love. And seeing the content smiles on their faces when they see their cakes for the first time keeps Harry motivated and convinced he’ll be doing this too one day.

Hopefully sooner rather than later.

“When was the last time  _you_  went on a date anyway, Pouty?”

Oh. Well. He’s got him there.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t want to date, it’s the opposite in fact. It just seems like Harry needs to lower his expectations a bit if he’s going to find the right match for him. And Harry doesn’t like lowering the bar. He wants it high, way high, no matter how unrealistic or futile that is. His person is out there somewhere. He just has to find him.

Still. That could take a while.

His phone buzzes on the table.

_Where are youuuuu???_

Harry smirks, tapping the keypad excitedly.

_Why? Have you finished the final touches to the flat now??_

_Maybe... you’ll have to come home to find out won’t you ;)_

“Who’s that?” Liam peeps over Harry’s shoulder curiously. “A guy?”

“It’s Louis,” Harry replies distractedly, too engrossed in his texting. He doesn’t miss the annoying smug look on Liam’s face when he gets his answer though. Harry doesn't encourage him with a reaction. Instead, he says, “So, Sophia?"

Liam groans.

"Oh, hey! If you ask her out, you can bring her to mine and Lou's housewarming party on Saturday!" Harry bounces his bum on the sofa, clapping his hands together, grinning.

He likes when he gets to see his matches in action on their dates. Which is why he usually sets them up at a big event or a party he's also attending, just so he and his nosy eyes can monitor their interactions.

Some would say it’s ‘interfering’. Harry prefers to call it ‘being invested’.

Yeah, Harry supposes he really is Emma Woodhouse. Too bad he's not sure when his Mr Knightley will come waltzing into his life, tuned into everyone else’s love life except his own.

Liam huffs. “If I want to get myself a date, I will, Harry.”

“Go ahead, then,” Harry challenges, waving a hand in the air.

“Sorry?”

“Liam, you have literal hearts in your eyes. It's nauseating. Go over there and ask her out.”

“You can talk,” Liam scoffs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s tone is suspicious.

But Liam is too busy having a mental breakdown. “No, no. I... I can’t.”

“Why not? What’s the worst that could happen? She could say no? Fine. At least then you'll know whether you had a chance."

“No, I could  _die_ , Harry,” Liam pleads.

“Please, you’re being more dramatic than I am.” Harry rolls his eyes.

"Look, you should really focus less on my dating history and maybe focus on yours. Particularly on the bloke you've got waiting for you at home," Liam says, giving him a knowing eyebrow, looking every bit the smug bastard. "God, for someone who's so obsessed with marriage, you'd think you would have proposed by now."

Harry eyes him warily, frowning. "What are you talking about? Who would I ask?”

"Really?"

Harry shrugs.

Liam sighs. "You're useless."

"If something was going to happen, it would have already," Harry says firmly.

"Ahah!" Liam shouts, ducking down and covering his mouth. "So you admit that something could happen?" he whispers, full out grinning. "I knew it."

Did Harry mention Liam can be a smug bastard?

"I'm not discussing this," Harry clips.

"But—"

"What did I just say, Liam?"

"Fine," Liam grumbles, folding his arms.

Okay, so it's not like the thought has never crossed Harry's mind, but it's a place he'd rather not go to at the moment. It's a bit of a sore spot, especially until recently, and Harry refuses to think about that tangled web right now, so Harry ends up going over to Sophia himself, like they’re in bloody high school, and drags a mortified Liam moments after (serves him right for pestering Harry about an uncomfortable subject) leaving a mute, blinking Liam batting his awed eyelashes at Sophia who, thankfully, seems to be charmed.

They hit it off seamlessly, because Liam can talk for England when push comes to shove, and he seems to be saying all the right things so Harry sits quietly pleased and finishes Liam’s coffee, leaving them to it as the shop begins to close around him, and Harry sets off home with another metaphorical love arrow shot determinedly through another heart, a soft smile forming on his face when his phone buzzes again, three times in a row.

_Come home now please_

_I need my human blanket_

_We also may be haunted... if we’re naming him I vote for Gerald_

Harry can't control the wide grin that takes up his face as he types out his response with frostbitten fingers, unconcerned by the brittle winds assaulting his sensitive skin, his chest feeling distinctly warm as he hits send.

_How do you know this possible ghost is a ‘he’? But don’t worry, I'll protect you, Boobear_

_Good. And fine, we’ll say Jerry... gender neutral. Happy?_

_No. We might have a ghost..._

_You said you’d protect me! And you know I don’t like that name Harold_

_Oh, I know, Boobear! Xx_

Another buzz.

_*angry emoji*_

Harry snickers, pockets his phone back in his jeans, blithe and bouncy (Louis says he’s like an overeager puppy sometimes but he likes it really) and grinning into his scarf broadly, wrapped securely around his neck and brushing his lips on every step. Now he’s got a mouthful of fluff stuck on his tongue. Lovely.

He splutters along, mind on a loop as he recites his texts with Louis, heels clicking against the pavement as he makes his way to the tube.

And yeah, he supposes he thinks about Louis a lot. He’s his best friend, his favourite person.

That’s completely normal and not at all weird, is what Harry has been telling himself quite a bit lately. But they’re close, so there’s no reason to be suddenly feeling hot and alarmingly self-conscious over this.

And yet.

Harry’s cheeks are beginning to heat up at what Liam implied about their relationship. They're probably crimson at this point.

But it’s not exactly a new thing.

Everyone has implied there’s more going on between them at some point. Friends, family, even people in passing. It’s become kind of an ongoing joke that Harry and Louis are basically married without being aware of it.

Which is... It’s silly. People just like teasing them because of how close they are, that’s all. Right? Right. They don’t genuinely believe they should be together or anything. It’s all in good fun.

At least, Harry thinks it is.

But wandering through the busy streets now, passing the dimly lit shop windows, feeling the cold a bit more as icy air sweeps over his face, a spot of drizzle starts to settle atop Harry’s beanie, Harry feels a bit overwhelmed, maybe even a bit embarrassed, perhaps?

Because (hopefully to the knowledge of as few souls as possible) Harry used to want what people said to be true. Badly. From the moment he met Louis, he developed a crush, shall we say? He probably stared at him a bit too intently, held onto his hand a bit too tightly, and remembered a bit too much about the things he said or did.

It was quite embarrassing, really, the level of which Harry was completely obsessed with him.

(He still is, to be fair).

But then Louis became his friend, his best friend, and Harry supposes those feelings of adoration, infatuation, sort of turned into a different kind of love.

Friendship.

And, that’s fine. It’s always been enough. Because it’s not like that between them.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he pops his earbuds in and focuses on something much less complex and confusing, like the opening notes of ‘ _Stuck On You’_  by Elvis as it comes on shuffle. They'd danced to it the other night, in tipsy, silly moods as they packed up the last of Louis' boxes at his mum's house, the rest of the family out for the evening, and Harry and Louis were left alone as they shimmied and twirled each other on top of the dining table, very nearly causing it to collapse and almost smashing Louis' mum's favourite bear ornament. 

Although, as he enters the tube station, it doesn’t do much to diminish the pondering thoughts he’s been having about his relationship with Louis lately. If anything, the song sort of makes it worse.

**

After shaking off a wave of wistfulness before Harry turns the key in the door of their new flat, ( _their_ new flat, he still can’t believe it’s theirs) because really, a wistful Harry does not bode well for anyone, he’s greeted with the booming sound of Belinda Carlisle’s ‘ _Heaven Is A Place On Earth_ ’.

Harry immediately cringes, amused but a little scared they’re going to be receiving violent threats under the door as he shuts it.

Because as usual, the noise belongs to something of Harry’s.

He shakes his head with a bitten smile as he wriggles out of his coat and scarf, hanging it next to the door, and is met with the distinct smell of something burning.

Oh, god. The flat's going to be burned down before they've even spent a full week here at this rate.

What’s he been doing now?

Though as soon as his gaze falls upon a dancing, wildly bedraggled Louis—patterned pumpkin socks on his feet, wearing joggers that are covered in half a ton of flour, as is the loose navy jumper he has on—a shocked but delighted grin takes over Harry’s face muscles, observing the disaster zone around him with wide eyes.

The kitchen is a wreck, and there appears to have been an aggressive struggle with the baking ingredients, (oddly, there's paw prints on the floor too... huh), and purple, pink and orange icing is stuck to most of the surfaces in splattered lumps and splotches, (there’s even some pink icing dried by Louis’ nose which is so bloody cute that Harry just has to snap a picture) along with messily used bowls everywhere, some still with gooey mixtures in and then there’s the wrinkled cupcake cases that are casually hanging out all over the dusty floor.

It appears as though a dozen, unsupervised six year olds have been let loose into the kitchen, left to cause baking mayhem.

But no. It’s just Louis.

 _When you walk into the room,_ Belinda’s voice rings out.

Louis dramatically swirls around, beckoning Harry to come closer with his index finger and mischievous eyes, a whisk in his other hand, using it as a microphone. He’s got a wide, impish grin on his face, and is that chocolate in his hair? Yes, that would be melted specks of it in his fringe, which is swept to the side of his flushed forehead, his blue eyes glowing brilliantly under their florescent kitchen lights.

Harry's never felt luckier.

“ _You pull me close and we start to mooove_ ,” Louis sings, just as loud as the music.

Harry kicks off his boots and bursts out laughing, gawping at Louis’ ridiculousness, knowing full well Louis’ amping it up purely to entertain him, and it’s working because Harry can’t help but lean his hands on his thighs, his laughter getting more and more hysterical. “You’re crazy!” he shouts over the music.

He’s completely mad and daft and hilarious and he's Harry's best friend.

“ _And we're spinning with the stars above!_ ” he carries on, gesturing at Harry's hips. Harry takes this as his cue to lift Louis up in his arms, just in time for Harry to sing, " _And you lift me up in a wave of love!"_

"Yes, Harry!" Louis beams at him. “Work those guns!”

Louis gets ready, puffing out his chest with a crinkly eyed grin, bellowing obnoxiously, “ _Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, heaven is a place on earth_!” Louis flings his arms in the air above his head. " _They say in Heaven, love comes first! We'll make heaven a place on earth!_ "

Harry feels buoyant as he spins Louis madly (and haphazardly) around in the kitchen, clinging to his legs and trying not to trip and drop him on his head. Louis’ not even holding on, trusting Harry implicitly as Harry struggles to stay upright.

“What have you even been doing in here?” Harry giggles as he lowers a bouncy Louis to the ground. Honestly, he’s like a kid. It’s so endearing, and so fucking cute. Harry hardly ever finds himself getting annoyed with him when he’s like this, because then he wouldn’t be Louis. It's impossible to mad at someone with his angel face.

"Baking, Harold. What does it look like?"

Right now, though, Harry’s trying to tone down his beaming smile to scold him about the absolute mess. “You better be cleaning this up, Lou. I’m not joking. I want it spotless, young man.”

Louis giggles as his hands brush Harry’s shoulders, face leaning in close and away again. Harry's smile stills for a moment, eyes lingering on Louis' mouth and quickly darting away when he realises he's staring. Then Louis is scuttling away to turn the volume down.

“Of course, I will. What do you take me for? You, my dear boy, may even," he wipes his nose and licks the icing off his thumb, "help me if you like?” Louis blinks innocently, swiping his fringe.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Mmhmm,” Louis hums, pinching Harry's bum.

Harry squawks. "Stop being cheeky," he says, taking hold of Louis' mouth and squeezing it as Louis makes stupid noises. “What you actually mean is, you wipe the same one surface for five minutes, while I clean up the rest of this chaos,” Harry teasingly chides, hands moving to rest on his hips, schooling his face into something far less feverishly pleased. It doesn’t work. Louis knows he’s got him wrapped around his little finger.

“And that one surface will be immaculate, Harry!”

“We’ve got our house warming in two days, you little shit.” Louis darts away again as Harry picks up a tea towel and throws it his way, Louis dodging it rather flexibly; he’s very agile. Harry pointedly does not dwell on this fact, proceeding to chase him around the kitchen worktop with the tea towel. “You must be punished!”

Louis stops in his tracks, sliding around in his socks in the living room. “You’re right, I must,” Louis sighs, throwing an arm over his forehead, abruptly bending himself over the dining table, and purposefully sticking his bum out as he spreads his limbs, elfin eyes challenging. “Off we go, then, Mr Styles. I’m ready for my punishment,” Louis says breathily, smirking and far too satisfied with himself. He wiggles his bum and smacks it lightly, making a kissy face at him.

Harry’s dick twitches in interest.

Wait. His dick did  _what_?

“Uh—aaah,” Harry stammers, quickly falling into nervous laughter. That noise he just made sounded dangerously similar to a moan.

Oh my god.

Harry cheeks are heating up at an alarming rate and Harry prays to all the gods that Louis hasn’t noticed. Instead, Harry chucks the towel at Louis’ face and scampers away. “Get to cleaning this shit up, or you will be!” Harry calls as he slams his bedroom door, not missing the open bottle of red wine on the side as he does.

Oh. Well, there we go, then. Louis’ just tipsy. And Louis gets extra flirty and horny when he’s tipsy. So that explains it. He was joking. Louis wasn’t being at all suggestive for Harry’s benefit.

He was just teasing him.

And Harry...  _liked_  it.

Oh no.

_Oh no._

But it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Harry looks down at the growing bulge in his jeans, the image of Louis bent over the worktop, bum there, waiting, cheeks flushed and blue eyes bright. Flashes of something not quite so innocent replaying over and over in his mind.

A breathy exhale slips past his lips. Harry bites his lip.

Christ.

He’s hard because of Louis.

_Louis._

“Oh, god. Oh, my god,” Harry breathes, collapsing onto his bed just as " _Push It_ " by Salt n Pepa blasts on, prompting Harry to levitate halfway into the fucking air, jumping out of his skin. “I hate you!” Harry yells, shoving his face into his pillow, trying to stop his hips from involuntarily grinding into the mattress.

But resistance is futile.

His hips start tentatively moving.

This is probably just a side-effect of not having got off with anyone in far too long. But there just hasn't been anyone he's been interested in enough to go there with. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even had a wank in ages, what with moving house and work and everything. It’s just a dry spell. That’s what this  _getting-hard-over-his-best-friend_  episode is.

It’s definitely not because of any other reason.

Nope. Zilch. 

Harry moans into his pillow, unable to stop his hand from reaching for his leaking cock. Thank god the music is turned up at a deafening volume. He can't even be arsed to care about the neighbours complaining. He rolls over onto his back, determinedly does _not_ wish it was his best friend's hand palming over his jeans, and just has to pray Louis doesn't come bursting into his room as lust overtakes his sober thoughts.

What does burst in though, is a cat.

A ball of adorable, ginger fluff.

“Jesus!” Harry screeches as the cat makes itself at home on the chair in the corner of the room, currently housing a pile of Harry’s clothes, and sits there, staring.

Judging Harry is what it’s doing.

At literally any other moment Harry would rush over and ask Louis if he can keep it.

As it stands though, he’s still extremely fucking horny.

He reaches inside his boxers and swears to repent for this afterwards.

**

“Lou! Do you  _ever_  pick up your towels?” Harry huffs, frowning deeply as he rubs his sore bum, bruised from slipping on the bathroom floor rather than for a reason Harry would prefer. Ahem. “Do you  _want_  me to die?”

It's almost two in the afternoon on Saturday, and today's their housewarming party. Which already started early last night with pre-drinks, lots of tequila, Elvis' greatest hits and Harry and Louis attempting to re-create the lift scene from  _Dirty Dancing_  in only their socks, t-shirts and pants. Harry twirled Louis, and Louis twirled Harry, and no one was there to tell them off for almost breaking one of their mum's vases this time. 

Independence is theirs, ill-made decisions and all.

He staggers upright while holding onto the sink, turning around with his toothbrush in hand when a dishevelled, fluffy haired boy appears in the bathroom doorway, rubbing at his eyes, a pillow mark stuck to the side of his left cheek, his slight frame swallowed up by one of Harry’s grey hoodies.

Harry’s heart constricts.

Because Louis only has to give him one of his trademark adorable kitten looks that says ‘ _you can’t possibly be mad at me, I’m fucking cute’_ , (actual words Louis has said out loud on many occasions) and it's true. He's a goner because Harry positively cannot stay annoyed with that face.

Not this very second, anyway. Louis has his moments, obviously.

Moments where Harry has literally wanted to tear his own hair out when Louis can’t be bothered to load the dishwasher just one bloody time, so sweetly leaving his bowls and mugs around for Harry to clean up, batting his eyelashes innocently when Harry shakes his head, or refuses to be the first one to end an argument over who bought the most recent pint of milk, or to at least  _try_ and pretend to function as a respectable adult and not have to be thrown out of the pub for the eighteenth time for swearing profusely, and challenging a much bigger guy to a fight because he's defending Harry’s honour.

(Okay, that part is nice and warming to the soul.)

But honestly, Harry wouldn't change a thing about him. Louis always has his back, and Harry would make anyone's life a misery if they hurt Louis, ready to passively stick a finger in their drink if they so much as displeased him.

Though, it's quite a struggle to deal with a Louis who's in an indignant rage and kicking out, hurling high-pitched insults, and being held back by Niall and Liam, while everyone else in the pub glares at the three of them and their screaming child at the best of times.

And Louis still manages to have them all in fits of giggles, even if they were pissed off not thirty seconds ago.

He's lucky he's cute is all Harry can say.

"Sorry, babe. Did I cause an accident?" he says as he yawns like a baby lion, hoodie up. He's just so soft and cuddly standing there, bundled up in Harry's clothes and barely able to keep his eyes open.

Harry stands there, just looking at him, admiring his general existence.

Oh, yeah. Louis said something, didn't he?

"I slipped on this towel you so kindly left on the floor, and I landed on my bum and now it's probably going to be bruised like a peach, so thanks for that," Harry tells him, shaking his head, mouth twitching fondly. See? Impossible to be mad.

"Aww, I'm sorry," Louis says, padding towards him and wrapping his arms around Harry's waist. Harry winds his arms around Louis' neck and they sway on the spot languidly. "Poor Harry's bum," he says, patting it lightly. Harry scrunches his nose to stop a bark of laughter. "I'll make you breakfast, or is it lunch now? A late lunch? I seem to have slept in longer than planned."

"Shocking. And you're going to make me food?" Harry asks, amused.

"Yes, I bloody am, so don't be a shit."

Louis lets him go and sets off into the kitchen, Harry following behind, wondering whether they have a fire extinguisher on hand. 

**

The party’s been going on for about five hours now, and Harry’s ears are ringing with the relationship woes of Drake and Rihanna, which blends in with the random bursts of football chants, momentarily distracting him from frowning at the onion and garlic dip being all out (though to be fair, that’s probably for the best. No one wants to be breathed on by someone with onion breath), blood warm with alcohol and aware Niall may break one of his stick legs at any given moment with his hyped, drunken lunacy at the moment. (A trip to the hospital he does not want, thanks.)

It’s basically organized chaos, but Harry is still beaming from ear to ear amidst a cramped throng of lively, mostly sloshed bodies, primped and saturated in aftershaves and heavy perfumes which waft around the room, framed and draped in dressy autumn outfits, heels clicking on the laminated oak flooring.

Harry’s surprised by how many people can actually fit in this place, really. Because, it’s not exactly much size wise, (or much at all, really) but it’s theirs. His and Louis’ and that’s all that matters to Harry.

(And he is also determinedly  _not_  thinking about what happened two nights ago. The less said about that incident(s), the better. He almost seriously put on sunglasses indoors because he was dreading looking Louis in the eye.) 

(But, anyway. Shut up, Harry.)

Their flat is a decent but fairly small space, which makes it cute and cosy as far as Harry is concerned. They’ve managed to re-vamp it completely from the shambles it was inside when they first found it, and all under a reasonably good budget with Harry's job and Louis' online music column. But if all goes to shit with the bakery, Harry fancies himself a real estate investor. Maybe he will one day.

And they decorated it all by themselves, singing shamelessly to Carly Rae Jepsen and Bruno Mars, covered in paint from head to toe and giggling like children as they painted the walls (and each other) an ostentatious ruby, the shade of red wine (a grateful change from the disgusting colour of vomit the walls were when they first snagged the flat, and by the skin of their teeth, too). All of the furniture is from IKEA (standard) after several, infuriating trips in which Harry realised Louis was just contradicting everything Harry suggested on purpose, just to wind him up as he smirked and skipped ahead down the aisles like a naughty five year old.

So Harry threatened to refuse to do his laundry from now on, and so that put a stop to that. Ten points to Harry.

But they both decided on a burgundy wood for the tables and chairs to go with the sophisticated, (because they’re a team) artsy theme Harry was going for in his mind and Louis was happy with the colour scheme, too, but not before calling Harry “pretentious” at every opportunity with a wicked, shit-eating grin on his perpetually impish face. ("Who do you think you are? Oscar bleedin' Wilde?") ("A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight—" Harry would start to quote with a smirk.) ("Hush, you're terrible!" Louis would screech, swatting at him with packaged kitchen utensils.) 

And Harry would make them tea when they took a break, and Louis would drain his faster than Harry could take a sip of his own cup, often finding Louis had drained his as well. But Harry would just smile fondly at Louis, not only because he was a menace but because he had a spot of paint on his cheek, and Harry would carefully swipe it away, and Louis would smile back appreciatively, an affectionate, somewhat lingering look in his eyes that Harry never tired of seeing.

Even if he didn’t quite know what it meant, Harry was only too happy to be on the receiving end of it. Of course that also meant Harry was distracted enough that Louis could easily steal the biscuit out of his “big paw” as Louis calls it.

And Louis agreed to the obscure pieces of art Harry wanted hung on the walls—if he could have his collectible Marvel film cell frames up on the wall too, along with some footie memorabilia. (Fair trade. Even if, along with a ton of photo frames of their families, it makes their walls rather cluttered now. Harry will find a way around that. The Christmas tree is going to have to go somewhere, after all.)

Now though, bottles pop open with raucous cheers, more being unscrewed in every direction Harry floats in as he ruffles his hair with a satisfied smirk, aiming charming smiles and friendly greetings towards every face that catches his eye—some of which are obviously familiar, and some very dearly loved, and some...Harry has never seen even once before in his life.

Okay, then. He’ll be having words with Niall. But, the more the merrier, he supposes.

Though as Harry eyes the worktop quickly, the amount of alcohol seems to be getting rapidly low. So much for saving a few bottles of red for later use. Looks like he’ll be sending Louis down to Tesco again on Sunday.

The speakers are thumping, vibrations reverberating throughout the flat (they're going to  _hated_  by the neighbours within the week. Harry’s going to have to pull out the big guns and bake every one of them a bloody cake) with a mix tape he made especially for tonight, the lights dimmed down and moody—just how they like it.

“Oi, Harry! Seen your husband around?” shouts James, joyous and rosy-cheeked, one arm slung around his tipsy, beaming wife, who smiles cheerfully, clutching a glass of red in his other hand.

Harry grins warmly, insides gooey at Louis’ name. (It means nothing _more_. Stop it.) “I’m looking for him actually. He’s gone MIA.”

“Oh, he’s probably leading a certain Irishman astray, or is it the other way around?” James smirks. “I swear they’re the purest thing together but when there’s alcohol involved...” he shakes his head solemnly, “woo, my, my, are those two absolute  _demons_!”

Harry giggles brightly, biting down on his bottom lip to keep the fond under control lest he make the most embarrassing contented noises, distractedly fiddling with his hair instead, as he continues looking for his favourite little pest.

Because he really is Harry’s favourite. Louis has been Harry’s best friend since uni and is practically “his husband”, according to all of their mutual friends. Which, okay, so the two of them are quite  _domestic._  They’re constantly in sync and Harry does Louis’ laundry and Louis is always fixing Harry's hair and his collar. But that’s because they’re just so used to each other, so comfortable and familiar in each other’s space. They just sort of fell into what they have very easily, and very quickly.

Everything they’ve needed, they’ve always had each other for, wouldn’t want anyone else.

Whenever something goes wrong, or if something happens to go right for once, the other boy is the only person they want first. To hold their hand. To give them a hug. Or to shake some needed sense into whatever mess one of them has got themselves into this time.

And there is no one Harry would prefer to live with more than his wonderfully messy, extremely noisy, amusingly stroppy  _Lou._

And no one will let him forget it.

But like he said, it’s just never really been like, say, romantic or whatnot.

Like, they’ve always been incredibly close since that first day at uni, tactile and affectionate friends who have little to no personal space or boundaries with each other.

Louis was the first person to strike up a conversation with him, all sunny exterior and styled light brown hair and cheeky greeney blue eyes. He immediately took Harry under his wing, never straying from his side, and he was funny and encouraging and popular and easy to be around, and just so, so  _nice_. He defended and indulged Harry like no one else ever had.

So of course Harry clung to him in a death grip.

And Louis didn’t seem to mind.

But it’s just never been anythingelse.

Even if, yes, Harry did want more, once. And obviously, Harry has  _eyes_.

Louis is gorgeous with a capital G. He's hot. Anyone would be lucky to be with Louis. He’s a catch. He’s wonderful, and hilarious and kind, and generous and so loving. Because Louis is made of nebulas and a millions suns and a sprinkle of starlight. He might even taste like stardust, or strawberries dipped in chocolate, or whatever a moonbeam might taste of. Because Louis is the brightest of stars, the softest and most beautiful. He’s his  _person_ —and maybe Harry is a bit tipsier than he thought.

God. He’s so drunk.

But the truth is, Harry is more than fine with what they are now. He is. Peachy. Just fine. And that’s not him being sarcastic. It’s not. He had those three wanks after witnessing Louis bent over the other day and...it’s out of his system.

Horniness got the best of him. He really is fine. Completely content. They were some brilliantly satisfying wanks.

Fuck. What is Harry even saying? Drunk, drunk, drunk.

(And no matter what Liam says, Harry has  _not_  mentally started writing their vows for Christ's sake. Honestly, that boy won’t give up.)

His friendship with Louis is soothing, really, like the loveliest feeling balm. It’s comforting and warm like a bubble bath. It’s childlike and supportive and ridiculous and crazily fun, and never boring. And whenever Harry’s feeling particularly lonely or shitty, or if he’s had a bad day, he’ll seek out Louis for a cuddle, snuggle up to Louis’ side while he plays with Harry’s hair, how he knows Harry likes it (because who else is there to give Harry this much needed perk?) and it’ll instantly relax him, make him feel  _safe_  and untouchable.

Because Louis is Harry’s  _best_  friend.

Admittedly, there have been times when he’s got his body wrapped around Louis or vice versa, and it _might_  make him think about what they could be like _together_. Properly. Like. In  _that_ sense.

Look, Harry knows that in many ways they’re probably perfect for each other—but what they have is far too important, too special, too rare for Harry to ever think about complicating it with sex. It’s just not worth it.

Right?  _Right_.

Because what if everything ended up ruined? What if things turned awkward? So much so that they started avoiding each other? That can’t happen. It would be the worst thing in the world.

Harry could never live without Louis in his life.

So. Yeah. It’s too risky. That door stays firmly closed. Locked. Bolted. Sealed with several heavy pieces of furniture. It's safer this way.

Besides, Louis’ never given a reason for Harry to ever wonder if he’d want  _more_  anyway, not beyond a bit of playful flirting, so more harm would be done than good if he ever brought it up.

Including a large dose of mortification.

(Despite moments like Louis’ teasing the other night. Louis’ just super flirtatious when he’s had a drink. Like, he said. He’s _fine_.)

It’s best things stay as they are.

_Harry wants it that way._

(And no, he will not ‘tell you why’, because he has.)

(That’s Harry’s story and he’s sticking to it.)

Like, on cue however, that particular Backstreet Boys song seems to have made its way onto the stereo. He’ll find the culprit, eventually. He votes James.

Harry continues to fight through the cramped living room space until he brushes against Liam’s firm shoulder, who immediately spots him, a beer in hand, encircling a toned arm around him and presses a sloppy kiss to Harry’s clammy cheek. “Hello, sunshine!” Liam beams, happily drunk. Harry smiles crookedly back, nuzzling into Liam’s side as his free hand squishes Harry’s face. Liam’s the best. He loves Liam a lot.

“Looking for the hubby, are we?” Perrie teases, who’s sitting down with Leigh-Anne in her lap, their legs clad in tights and tangled together, smirking up at him suggestively. “Why aye,” she winks. Perrie seems to get progressively more Geordie the drunker she gets.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Harry retorts, giving her a smug, pressed smile and releasing himself from Liam’s hold, placing his hands gaudily on his hips. Perrie laughs around the rim of her glass, a stripe of purple in her blonde hair, pulled into a high ponytail.

Because when Louis’ looking for him he’ll instruct everyone with a “ _If found, please send my husband back to me!_ ” and Harry does the same. That’s not weird, no matter what Ed says. It’s a term of endearment. Friends can have those. And that’s what they are.  _Friends_. “Actually, you’ve not seen him anywhere, have you? Oh, nevermind, there’s the other half now,” he slurs slightly, mouth caught on a lazy smile, ignoring Liam’s knowing eyebrow raise.

Harry spots Louis pouring out a dozen more glasses of champagne, precariously lining them up atop the kitchen counter. Harry inwardly cringes. Those things are brand new. He even went to a more expensive store for those.

Niall’s there next to him, pretending to clear his throat with a closed fist, straightening his back and obnoxiously reading from an invisible piece of paper. He hasn’t broken a leg yet, then. At least that’s a plus. They’re about to make a toast with a nonsensical speech apparently and Harry can tell by Louis’ sloppy balance, by the dampness of his fringe that he doesn’t try to flick out of his eyes that he’s been long gone for a couple of hours now. Harry immediately assesses the surrounding proximity for anything flammable, or breakable, or both.

Ah, Harry's mum’s ‘moving in’ present to them. A vase. A teal and lime infused, paint splattered vase. It’s kind of nice, Harry supposes, but say if it were to accidentally be destroyed in a tragic drunken accident caused by Louis’ lethal feet, well, Harry can’t say he’d shed a tear.

Harry grins when he sees him, a familiar warmth and an excited feeling bubbling erratically around his insides. Hastily, he makes his way over to him, almost tripping over his own boots, squeezing himself past rowdy faces and sweaty foreheads, giving a couple of fist bumps to James and Ed before he's coming up from behind and pulling Louis' compact body into his front.

He grins wider, buries his face in the soft junction between Louis’ neck and shoulder that smells of soap, musky and sweet, when he feels Louis’ hands brush over his, which rest contentedly on Louis’ soft tummy, easily entwining his fingers with Harry’s longer ones.

“I’m very high maintenance so I’m not sure you could handle me, sir. Now unhand me at once,” Louis lilts, feigning offence, gripping Harry’s hands all the tighter.

Niall rolls his eyes at them, but doesn’t hide his wide smile. “Jesus lord. Get a room, boys, please!” he shouts, before skipping back into the crowd, laughing, and high fiving someone with an inhuman jump into the air—and almost toppling back over the sofa, making a girl screech in surprise as he knocks her drink over her top.

Harry barely flinches at the broken glass (if he were more sober, Harry would be out with the hoover before you blinked) as it crashes to the floor, currently too preoccupied with a few glasses of red thrumming hazily through his bloodstream, tickling at his cells, too lost in the warmth of his favourite person currently stuck to his chest.

“Hey, roomie,” Harry murmurs against his ear, lets his eyes droop for a moment before he feels Louis wriggle in his arms, whirling his body around to face him.

“It’s my boy!” Louis drunkenly greets with flushed cheeks, blue eyes alight and glazed over, cradling Harry’s face in his slightly sticky hands, but Harry doesn’t mind, is just happy to see him after hours of being pulled every which way by people who want to catch up, making sure everyone’s drink is topped up, and taking the cling film off the buffet food—as they stared at each other from opposite sides of the room, sending lingering glances and pulling stupid, gormless faces like they were in bloody  _West Side Story_  or something because they’re both as dramatic as each other.

Harry smiles at him dopily, bending down to tuck his chin back into the smooth curve of Louis’ neck, pecking a tiny kiss to his hot skin. He’s got his collarbones on display in a low cut, flimsy grey jumper, paired with a nice fitted pair of black jeans, which Harry gladly helped him whittle down to.

Not that Louis didn’t help Harry too. Louis chose a nice satin, ice pink shirt for Harry to wear and of course Harry went with that one. He appreciates Louis’ fashion opinions very much, you know. He’s got great taste. A fact that seems to slip past people’s minds.

Louis was the one that convinced Harry headscarves were still cool, much to Liam’s disagreement. (His hair always looks boring anyway, the sod.)

Okay, Harry can see why they get so many comments about the nature of their friendship. He’ll give them that one.

But Harry can’t be bothered to care about that right now though, not when Louis’ gazing up at him so intimately like Harry’s the only person in the room worth looking at.

Ahem. Did Harry mention he was a tad drunk? Alcohol makes him sentimental.

“Haven’t seen you practically all evening,” Harry pouts grumpily, brows knitting as he bathes in Louis’ attention, giggles when Louis bops his nose, pulling a silly face up at him. He shaved tonight, which literally turns him back into a nineteen year old. Harry doesn’t even attempt to stop himself from nuzzling his cheek into Louis’ soft skin. He swears Louis is actually keeping the fact he’s immortal from him.

Louis shakes his head, sighing dramatically. “I know, I know. How can we possibly find the time to see each other now that we _live together_ , eh? Suppose it’s impossible.” He smirks as he takes one of the glasses he’s just filled and gulps about half down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and goes to wipe it on Harry’s shirt.

“Oi, excuse me, you little bastard,” Harry laughs, half-frowning and pretending to bite his hand, snapping his teeth at him exaggeratedly before bursting into more giggles, feeling Niall’s eyes on them. He glances at him and inwardly groans when Niall bites his bottom lip and points to Louis, gesturing for him to squeeze Louis’ bum, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Honestly. God.

But Louis isn’t giggling back, eyes trained on something behind him.

Harry frowns, pulling him in closer. “What’s with the face?”

“What face?” Louis says, feigning nonchalance. Strange. “Um, I just was waiting to tell you... we might have another guest along soon." His voice is tentative.

“Oh, right. Who’s that then?” Harry asks, confused. He thought everyone they’d invited had arrived already, especially now it’s almost half twelve. Their place is packed which is lovely—it meant they received plenty of household appliance gifts. Louis unwrapped them all before Harry had even got a look in, of course, blinking up at Harry innocently when he got caught. Menace.

He doesn’t get a chance to hear Louis’ reply though because a tall guy with a lot of white teeth and a single caramel swirl in his short brown hair encircles Louis’ waist abruptly. “Boo,” he says, falling into laughter.

Harry frowns a bit harder.

“Hi? I don’t think we’ve met?” Harry says immediately, eyeing the man warily, and eyeing Louis’ rigid body even more.

“Oh, hey,” Louis smiles, turning around to hug him. “Harry, this is—”

“Aiden. I’m Louis’ new squeeze. Or boyfriend, or whatever. Beau! We should call each other that!” he laughs, holding out his hand for Harry to shake. “You must be Harry. Heard about nothing else from Louis, to be honest!”

Harry freezes, blinking rapidly, ignoring the proffered hand.

“Boyfriend?” Harry repeats, mouth open.

What? When did Louis start dating? And more importantly, how come Harry didn’t know about it?

“We haven’t really labelled it yet though, have we?” Aidenlaughs again, breezy and confident and a bit manic and—

Hysterical laughter suddenly bubbles up the column of Harry’s throat and comes out as shockingly high-pitched shrieking, earning him a very bemused look from Louis. “Oh!” He bends over and slaps his thighs. “You almost got me. Because I was just about to say—”

He suddenly feels a lot drunker than he thought he was. Much drunker. And fuck, it’s hot in here. Can someone open a damn window? He’s fucking sweltering. Jesus Christ.

“Harry—”

“I was about to say, I think I’d know if my best friend had a boyfriend!” Harry scoffs.

“Harry,” he hears Louis say.

He turns to look at Louis, expectant. “Yeah, hon?”

“Harry, um...this is Aiden. We’ve been sort of seeing each other. I just wanted to test the waters before I told you, that’s all. I wasn’t purposely keeping him from you or anything, babe,” Louis says, smiling ruefully and his voice is so soft and so, so careful of Harry’s feelings, making Harry’s chest feel tight.

But Harry just stares at Louis, lips pressed in a thin line, suddenly hit with the strong urge to just drag Louis away, sit with his thigh pressed to his, fingers intertwined on their new coral settee that Louis thinks is ‘quirky’ and spend the rest of the night listening to Louis’ airy, raspy laughter, excessively guzzling red wine with their mates.

The uncomfortable tightness sits heavily in his stomach, spreading upwards to his chest and twists sharply.

What’s happening?

Why does Harry feel like the floor’s dropped from beneath his feet?

He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to deal with possibly having to share Louis’ time with some random dude now.

A random dude with weird hair and a smile that’s frankly rather disturbing.

Like... Harry’s literally  _just_  moved in with Louis. They’ve  _just moved in._

This was supposed to be their time.

Harry wasn’t planning on having the  _conversation_ where they discuss bringing people home and the protocol for that  _already_ , nevermind discussing Louis having a secret boyfriend Harry knew nothing about sixty seconds ago.

This is bullshit.

Ugh. He knows he's being selfish, but he can't stop, skin itching with  _jealousy_. He tetchily downs one of the glasses of champagne sitting on the side, fixates his dizzy gaze on the bubbles as he knocks it back and goes straight for another one. He sees Aiden awkwardly lower his snubbed hand out of his peripherals.

Louis stares at him incredulously.

Shit.

But rather than discuss this new development like the mature twenty-two year old he’s supposed to be, or even congratulate Louis and make it clear he’s happy if Louis’ happy like any normal, polite best friend  _would_ , Harry folds his arms and stands there like a petulant child, childishly shaking off Louis’ hand when it comes to rest on his elbow, ignoring the surprised hurt in Louis’ blown, but now quickly sobering gaze.

Harry swallows thickly, aware his throat is suddenly dry and the dull tightness in his chest is getting worse, so much so that it’s starting to make him feel sick.

“Hey,” Louis snaps, frowning. “What’s up with you?”

Aiden shifts uncomfortably. “Uh... I’m just gonna go grab a drink, if that’s cool?” Louis grips his arm and Harry stiffens.

“Yeah, help yourself, babe.”  _Babe._  That’s Harry’s name. Harry is the only one Louis calls  _babe_. “Go and speak to that bleached blonde prat over there and I’ll be over in a bit,” Louis smiles tightly, pecking Aiden’s lips. “He’s Irish, you’ll love him.”

“Alright, um...yeah.” Aiden rushes off just as fast, greeting Niall who politely shakes his hand and then shoots a perplexed glance Harry’s way.

Harry definitely feels sick now.

“Right, what's gotten into you?” Louis scowls. “That was fucking rude, Ha—”

Harry  _is_  sick.

He retches not once, but twice, directly on Louis’ shoes.

Oh, fuck.

Okay, so he’s definitely much drunker than he was originally aware of. And now he’s literally thrown up on Louis. Fantastic. What a charmer he is. Well done, Harry. Fucking, god.

Louis groans as he tips his head back. “Oh, Harry.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry,” Harry whimpers, lifting his head up pathetically with remorse. “I couldn’t stop it.”

Louis kicks off his new pair of shiny brogues and takes them away to dump in the bath. Harry follows him like he always does, like a sad pup that knows he’s been badly behaved, and swipes a napkin from the worktop as they pass, dragging it over his mouth, chucking it in the bin in the kitchen as he follows Louis to the bathroom, Liam, Sophia, Perrie and Leigh-Anne’s eyes on them. “Liam, a little help,” Louis calls apologetically.

Great, now his friends have to clean up his sick.

Harry's so embarrassed. 

“Can’t believe you just did that,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in exasperation as he gets down the shower head and turns on the spray, hosing down his shoes before turning it on Harry for a second, causing Harry to splutter in surprise.

“Hey!” Harry yells, indignant. The water is freezing.

Louis sprays him some more with a sour expression on his face.

“I’m sorry!” Harry pleads. “Shit, Lou, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know why I just reacted like that.”

Not entirely true. He knows he was an utter shit just now and rude, and he has a very large inkling as to why, which he doesn’t really want to think about too closely right now. “I’ll go and apologise to Adam, alright?”

“It’s Aiden!” Louis throws up his hands.

“Fuck! I’m sorry! Aiden! I’ll go and apologise right now,” Harry insists, despite the fact he’s a drowned, post-vomiting mess.

Louis’ jaw sets, sharp blue eyes leaking disappointment everywhere. Harry wants to punch himself in the face. “No, forget it,” he sighs. “You can make this up to me when you’re sober.” He dumps the shower head back into the holder on the tiles and brushes past Harry’s arm. “Happy House Warming, Harry,” he says quietly.

Harry watches with guilty eyes, heart sinking as Louis walks back out to the party, putting an arm around Perrie and grinning like nothing just happened. Harry can’t help but clench his jaw when Aiden strolls over and hugs him from behind, Louis’ arm resting on his waist.

Harry's face crumples.

A wet sob escapes his lips before Niall is there in his space and taking him by the hand, dragging him outside to their tiny balcony that overlooks the distant backdrop of the city’s bright skyline, stars dotted in the black sky. 

He hugs his middle in the chilly night air, teeth chattering with wet hair, blinking back tears as he looks at Niall. "I think I just fucked up.”

"Well, it didn't exactly look like sunshine and roses from where I was standing," Niall says sympathetically, taking a swig from his beer.

Harry eyes it. “Can I have some of that?”

Niall nods and Harry takes it from him, gulping it down. Niall watches, a pitying look in his clear blue eyes. “Oh, Haz. You do know what this probably means, right?”

“That I’m a giant dickhead?” Harry says, lips starting to quiver, tears blurring his vision now.

“Nah, look. What I mean is, friends don’t generally react like that to their friend introducing someone that they’re dating. That sulky show you pulled out there,” Niall gestures with his thumb, shaking his head with a disbelieving laugh, “wasn’t a normal reaction, Harry. That was like, I dunno, some kind of jealous rage, man.”

“I don’t know what happened. I just shut down,” Harry mumbles, taking a shuddery breath.

Harry stands there, shoulders hunched and crestfallen. The tears prickling his eyes are starting to sting, spilling in tracks down his cold cheeks.

“I think I’m jealous,” Harry whispers, so quietly that maybe then he can pretend it’s not true. What’s he thinking? He’s being ridiculous. “I just felt like... threatened, I guess? Like all of a sudden I was being faced with having to share to Louis with someone more important than me? I thought I’d have him to myself at least a bit longer.”

“What are talking you about? Mate, you’re his best friend. You know you’re always going to be more important to him than any guy that comes along.”

“Am I though?” he sniffs.

Niall levels with him with a look. “If this building was on fire, I’d bet my life savings Louis would get you out first. And who would be the first person  _you_ want to make sure is safe?”

“Louis,” Harry blurts out without any hesitation. “No offence! I’d run straight back in to get you and Liam, I promise!”

“It’s fine. I’m not the guy you’re in love with,” Niall chuckles.

“What?”

Harry’s heart starts to race.

“Huh?”

“What did you just say?”

“Um...”

“I’m not in love with Louis,” Harry breathes, eyes wide, just as that ginger cat that caught him masturbating the other day jumps out at him from nowhere.

“Jesus H Christ!” Niall screams. The cat screams. Harry screams. The party inside doesn’t even flinch.

Harry tries to cradle it to his chest to calm it down, kind of wanting to hug it for some comfort. Where did it even come from? It must be a neighbour’s. Maybe Harry can feed it sometimes and the cat will come over and visit Harry when he’s in need. 

The cat, however, is having none of it. It meows at Harry and scampers off, leaving Harry with what Niall just suggested.

Harry looks at Niall helplessly.

“I’m not, am I?”

Niall tilts his head dubiously.

“Am I?”

Fuck.

Of course he bloody is.

Louis introduced a new possible boyfriend and Harry felt like his whole world had just crumbled beneath his feet. That’s obviously not a normal reaction if Louis and him are just friends. Yeah, they’ve always been close, but this is another level even Harry knows can’t be explained away as platonic behaviour. 

Suddenly his wistfulness lately is starting to make sense.

“Oh, my god.” Harry stumbles backwards and slumps against the grubby brick wall. “I’m  _in love_  with _Louis_ , Niall,” he wails, taking another unstable step forward and tipping his head back as he continues to drain Niall’s beer. He pops his chapped lips off the empty bottle, skin itchy and cold. “Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

“Or something stronger,” Niall supplies.

Harry presses the backs of his palms into his eye sockets, overwhelmed.

“I honestly thought you knew already, and were just down playing it, but yeah, you’re pretty crazy in love with him, I’d say,” Niall agrees. “Unfortunate that you only just realised. Now that he’s, you know. Dating someone else.”

“Wow, that’s so helpful of you, Niall,” Harry glares.

Niall winces, and pats Harry’s shivering back.

All the complicated thoughts and feelings that Harry has kept safely locked inside the drawers of his brain are tumbling out at lightning speed.

“I should have known. I mean, of course I am! God, how long have I felt like this?” Harry breathes, chest feeling unbearably tight, panic taking over his limbs.

“If you’re asking me, I’d say about two hours after you met him,” Niall ponders. He points a finger at him, brows raised. “He took a chunk out of your burger while it was still half in your own mouth. You looked like you’d literally discovered the meaning of life, mate.”

“Oh, shit. I knew this was coming,” he whines, slapping a hand over his forehead. 

Harry remembers it vividly. He couldn’t even be bothered by it, didn’t even try to shake him off. Louis was just the most adorable thing he had ever laid eyes on. He was whipped from the first day his eyes fell upon a cheeky boy with golden skin and blue impish eyes that glittered with mischief. 

Harry had belonged to him ever since.

That’s also when the crush started, didn’t it? Harry realises that never actually went away.

Christ. Oh, god. Why is this happening to him?

He turns around to see Louis and Aiden dancing like idiots inside, surrounded by Perrie and Leigh-Anne and Liam and Sophia, seemingly having all the fun in the world with a guy next to him who isn’t Harry. Harry isn't even  _there_. He's just watching from the sidelines with a heavy ache in his chest.

And it chars Harry. It’s supposed to be him next to Louis. Always. It's what they swore lying under mountains of blankets in their dorm room at uni, beanies atop their heads and noses cold, facing each other with coy smiles, and promising they'd be friends for life.

Pinky promising. 

Harry realises he's probably always been in love with Louis, and like an utter cliché, Harry comes to this epiphany when Louis' found someone else.

He can't have lost him, can he? Not when Harry feels like he's finally, properly found him.

He might be blowing this out of proportion, true (he doesn't even know the extent of Louis' feelings for this guy yet) but it's how Harry feels.

Harry exhales a drawn out breath. He decides in his drunken misery that he’s going to tell Louis how he feels. They tell each other everything, so why should this be any different? Things won’t get complicated. It won’t be awkward. It’s Louis. Louis won’t let things get complicated or awkward.

Because Louis must feel _something_? No one looks at Harry like Louis does? Those lingering glances, and the whispers in his hair, and the way his hands tighten around his waist just that bit more. Louis must have thought about it, at least?

He shakes his head. “I’m gonna tell him,” Harry says determinedly, or as much as he can while he's stumbling over his own feet while literally just standing on the spot.

“Woo! Yes, you are, mate!” Niall shouts, delighted. 

Well, he will. When the moment's right.

**

He doesn’t try to talk to Louis. In fact, Louis barely aims his gaze in Harry's direction, so Harry ends up observing the party that continues without him, perched on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, wolfing down the bowls of crisps, breadsticks and dip mindlessly, eyes never wavering from Louis and his loud laugh and the longest piece of his sweaty fringe that’s falling into his eyes, the piece that Harry thinks is the best and he just wants to walk over to him and gently tuck it behind his ear, and continue to tuck it because it _will_ fall back repeatedly.

Nope, he doesn’t declare his love, he just sits and watches instead, munching on savoury snacks and cheese and chive dip and guzzles glass after glass of champagne.

When that’s run out, he starts on the Prosecco, stomach dropping somewhere near his bum when Louis’ hand finds its way around the back of Aiden’s neck.

Harry swallows down a pained whimper.

Fuck, he’s going to feel like he’s dead in the morning.

“Maybe you should slow down, Harry,” Liam’s concerned voice says.

Harry ignores Liam’s swatting at the bowls and his attempts to pry Harry’s glass out of his hand, suddenly hit with an alarming revelation.

“Oh, my god! I’m Jules, aren’t I?” Harry blurts, frantic and so drunk. “I’m Julia Roberts’ character in  _My Best Friend’s Wedding_. Fuck, I’m going to try and break up their engagement like a cruel wanker.” Harry pouts, stuffing four Twiglets into his mouth at once. They’re Louis’ favourite, he notes, and Harry is pathetic. “Do you think I can pull off Julia’s ability to stay likeable despite technically being the villain in that situation? Because even though she was trying to break them up, you still felt for her, you know? But I really don’t want to be Julianne Potter. I want the guy. I’ll get the guy, yeah? I’m not horrible. Louis loves me best, doesn’t he?”

Harry’s rambling. Ugh, why can’t he shut up?

“Harry, calm down. They’re barely dating yet. They’re not getting married,” Leigh-Anne laughs, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, if we're talking film comparisons, I think _Pretty in Pink_ is totally you and Louis," Liam says suddenly, sloshing his wine about, taking a sip. Harry frowns, confused as to where Liam's going with this. "Yeah, Louis is Andie. Headstrong, compassionate, the object of everyone's affections. And Aiden's loaded, right? Got middle class parents or something, I heard, so he's the other guy, and you're the best friend, so you're Duckie."

"I'm Duckie?" Harry says blandly. 

"Yeah," Liam says, proud of himself. "Charismatic. Wears a lot of hats, got quirky style. Duckie."

"You do realise Andie ended up with Blaine, right? The rich dude, and _not_ Duckie, the best friend who'd been in love with Andie his whole fucking life."

"Oh," Liam says, sheepish. 

Harry scowls before it morphs into a crumpled, hysterical heap once more. "Jesus," he wails.

“Come on, mate. You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, yeah?” Perrie sits down next to him and helps him finish the Walkers chicken and thyme crisps. “Let’s play a drinking game. Forget about Louis for five minutes, eh? And, anyway. You're not Jules and Michael or Andie and Duckie either. They weren't supposed to end up together. But, you and Louis? Yous two are just meant to be. You don’t get one without the other. You’re like Ant and Dec—the gay version.”

“I’m offended on Harry’s behalf, Pez. Harry and Louis are much better than those guys,” Liam pouts. Okay, Liam's a tiny bit forgiven.

“They’re Geordies. He should be honoured, man,” Perrie protests, softening when Harry rests his head on Perrie's shoulder, who strokes his hair as he watches Louis move around the room, charming the guests. It’s not the same as when Louis does it. Perrie’s nice but she’s not doing it right. Harry pulls off with another deep set frown.

Liam pulls his brows together. “Wait, did you and Louis make a pact to marry each other if you’re both single at twenty eight, too?” he asks seriously, even though his eyes are drooping heavily. He might fall asleep standing up at this rate. That’s usually Harry at this point. But he’s too buzzed and miserable to think about sleeping right now.

“No,” Harry says impatiently, “but if my love life went pear shaped over the next few years, I might have!”

“So you admit you want to marry Louis then?” Sophia smirks.

“What? No! Not that. Not yet. I just... I want...” Harry trails off, his fuzzy gaze falling to Louis again, whose chin is now in his palm, body sprawled over the sofa and lying on his stomach, a slither of smooth, honey soaked skin exposed. “Hey, just because I set you two up, it doesn’t mean you can gang up on me in my time of crisis, okay?”

Liam and Sophia just exchange muffled laughs, amused eyes locked on each other’s.

Sickening.

Harry sighs dramatically. 

It’s all a blur after that.

** 

It's been a little over three hours since Harry was hit with the (mostly) unsurprising reality that he's utterly, deeply, crazy in love with Louis.

Only Harry's not even a little bit sure, or even wants to dare to hope for the possibility that could Louis love him in the same way.

Because it's too late now.

Crushed. That's about the right word for how he feels. Like his whole body has been stamped on. (Or maybe that's the Prosecco). And it's not like he can do anything about it anytime soon, is it? Even if he wanted to. Not realistically, anyway.

Because, sadly, this is not a John Hughes movie as far as Harry is aware. Everyone else is pretty sure it is, though, having no qualms in sprouting the word that Harry and Louis are meant for each other.

There's just one person left who's not aware of this.

Louis.

When everyone’s stumbled out the door, having finally taken the hint and gone home, Harry is tucked up in bed, feeling cold, regretful and wretched. Stupid fucking party. He can barely remember half of went on tonight, except that he knows he’s upset Louis, and it’s this detail that is pressing heavily on Harry’s bruised heart, a persistent ache over that spot, and that’s...a bad sign, isn’t it?

Harry turns his face into his pillow and whimpers at the sad mess his life has become in one bloody night.

Then the door creaks open, and Harry’s pulse quickens when he feels a slow dip in the mattress next to him.

Obviously it’s Louis. Who else would it be? But Harry can tell by his aftershave, by the graceful way he sits down. Harry could even tell Louis was behind him without even a glance. He’d just _know_.

But apparently, realising you’re in love with someone—particularly your best friend—throws all your comfortable, relaxed nature around them out the window. And now all of a sudden, Harry isn’t quite sure how to act around Louis.

Which is stupid.

It’s Louis.

Then again, matters are more complicated as of right now because he’s pissed Louis off, so the normal touching protocol probably isn’t going to apply, anyway. And Harry’s head is still spinning, and he’s so hot and bothered and irritable, throat dry and temples pounding.

But Harry has a sneaking suspicion these aren’t all symptoms of alcohol related consumption.

Hopefully this awkwardness wears off soon or how is he even supposed to function? If the next few days, or weeks, or however long it takes for Harry to gather the courage to tell Louis his feelings goes like this...it’s going to be unbearable.                

But Harry calms down when soft, gentle fingertips brush at the bare skin on his arm that rests on tip of the duvet, leaving goosebumps in their wake as his breathing starts to stutters. Harry shivers, and shuts his eyes.

He flips back over, facing Louis in blue tinged darkness, save for the tawny, golden living room light that’s seeping into Harry’s room.

He hates Louis being cross with him. He hates that he was so rude tonight, and he hates that Louis still isn’t smiling, despite the feather light caressing of his arm, hand moving further up to brush through Harry’s hair, mussed and still a bit damp from earlier. Harry's eyes automatically begin to droop. “I’m sorry for being stupid tonight,” Harry whispers, his head and heart pounding furiously.

Louis abruptly stops petting him and removes his hand. Harry instantly misses it and makes a noise of protest. “Don’t stop, please? I like it when you do that,” he murmurs.

A heavy sigh from Louis’ lips fills the air, and there’s a beat or two of silence, sending a sharp wave of anxiety through Harry’s nerves. Louis stays sitting beside him but now his hands are in his lap. He's frowning deeply.

He should grovel, apologise again but Harry can’t bring himself to think about Aiden right now. Only selfishly set on one thing. “Can I have a cuddle?” Harry asks tentatively. He’s pushing it, he knows he is. Still, Harry has no shame. He wants Louis in his arms.

"You think you deserve cuddles after that episode you pulled tonight, do you?” Louis grumbles. “Ernie’s better behaved than you were and he’s a little monster.”

Harry makes an affronted noise. He’s got half a mind to retort back something about Louis’ inability to do simple household tasks such as his own laundry, after just being compared to a _toddler_ , but Harry knows it’s warranted. He  _was_  a moody twat. But the look in Louis’ eyes in no less soft towards Harry than usual and Harry feels quietly pleased at that, albeit incredibly guilty.

But Harry can’t rationally explain his behaviour tonight without blurting out  _‘I’m in love with you and you’re the only one and I don’t want to be with anyone else ever’, s_ o how  _can_  he explain it to Louis without spilling his guts on the floor? Guts that would probably be gooey, pulsating, red love hearts sprinkled in glitter.

Really, though, all it boils down to is simple jealousy, doesn’t it?

Whether he’s in love or not, Harry saw green tonight, as he has on many other occasions since he's known and loved Louis. He feels like they’re at uni again, when Harry would get irrationally stroppy because Louis’ priceless attention had suddenly been taken elsewhere instead of being focused on him. Louis would just laugh, but always come back to Harry, even though Harry was being a brat who hated sharing.

He’s always been slightly possessive over Louis and that’s definitely not about to change now. But then Louis isn’t much better.

Harry’s face heats up at the memories, fingers inching closer towards Louis’ lap, resting lightly atop Louis’ folded leg, his other hand clasping Louis' socked ankle as he blinks up at him. Louis looks so small like this, hunched up and staring into space, highlighted in blue light.

“The last thing I ever want to do is upset you, Lou,” he says quietly, words slightly muffled in his pillow that he's now hugging to his chest, pathetically imagining it’s Louis because he’s hardly going to get a cuddle from him tonight now, is he? Not when he basically blanked his new boyfriend, or new ‘squeeze’ or ‘beau’ or whatever other ridiculous label that Adam listed. Oh, shit. Or was it Aiden? He really needs to get his name right at least or Louis' going to kill him.

“I know that,” Louis replies softly, returning his hand to Harry’s hair, finger moving lightly over his scalp, scratching gently at the spot behind his ear. He lets his eyes droop again, almost drifting off to Louis massaging his head in soothing circles, listening to the sound of Louis’ quiet breathing.

“I’m sorry I went all Possessive Ex on him. Even though I’m not even an ex,” Harry chuckles nervously. God, this is terrible.

Louis’ quiet for a moment, blue eyes peering at him thoughtfully. “No, you’re my best friend, Harry. That’s so much more important than some bloke. Alright?” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course, it is,” Louis insists, voice a little husky but soft, like cotton-wool, like Louis' hands. He doesn't even use that much moisturiser to get them like that. They're just naturally soft all on their own, like all of Louis. He’s all soft. So soft. The softest. 

"Don't let him hear you say that," Harry murmurs, lips forming a hesitant smirk. 

Louis doesn't say anything to that, simply smiles warmly down at him, fingers trailing to Harry's face, tracing lines and patterns over his cheek, so gently, gingerly, as though Harry is made out of fine china, something breakable, something precious to be handled delicately. Harry always feels so important under Louis' attention, so treasured and cared for. “Are you feeling better now?”

Harry's breath hitches, eyes growing damp. “Ask me in the morning,” he murmurs.

Harry loves him. Louis Tomlinson is the one for him, always has been, and always will be. The only one. One and only.

Why couldn't he have come to this monumental epiphany sooner? Maybe if he had realised this in uni, they could have been best friends who were also boyfriends.

Harry tilts his head up, just looking at him for a few painstaking moments, at the chiselled angles of his face and the faint freckles on his cheeks, at the way his eyelashes softly fan over them.

“We could do something else together? I can meet him properly at lunch sometime instead, yeah?” Harry tries his best not to grimace as he suggests it, but he wants to make Louis happy.

So it’s the only option. Force meaningless conversation with a guy who doesn’t know how to use hair dye correctly and hope for the best. Even if he'd rather stick pins in his eyeballs.

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good,” Louis says offhandedly, shifting down the bed and letting Harry’s head nestle atop his chest. Harry burrows into Louis warm chest, listening to his heartbeat and wanting him to hold him while he falls to sleep, as they’ve done countless times before. Harry wonders how much longer Louis will allow it, though. And how many nights Louis might not even be here from now on.

Harry shuts his eyes, pushing away the unpleasant thoughts, gripping Louis' hand and squeezing it. 

“What?” Louis murmurs.

“Stay.”

“Here?” Harry can hear the smile in his voice.

Harry hums. “With me. Stay with me, forever.”

“Of course I will. You just try and stop me, baby cakes," Louis whispers into his hair.

“I’d never,” Harry whispers, feeling Louis tighten his hold around his waist, before becoming distantly aware of Louis sliding out from underneath his weight, as Harry drifts into unconsciousness. 

**

Harry wakes up much earlier than Louis the next morning, because it’s not like he managed to get much sleep.

No. Some chance of that happening.

When he woke up, unhappily realising Louis had crept back to his own room, Harry lay there, wide awake amidst a mind swirling with all sorts of scenarios. All that involves a blissfully happy life with Louis, that was then snatched away each time with Harry’s paranoid, erratic thoughts.

He practically mutilated his nails from biting them all night, feeling progressively more sick.

Literally.

There were several trips to the toilet.

They were all from the seventh circle of hell.

The little sleep he did manage was still fitful and unpleasant, and then there's the slight detail of feeling like crap anyway, after the fruitless attempts to drink his sorrows away last night.

So after he's chucked up the abundant amount of Prosecco in his bloodstream (regrettably along with the excessive amount of crisps and party food he consumed), he gets to work on clearing most of the mess up (cleaning is a very therapeutic thing for Harry) and decides to make Louis breakfast in bed, going all out and preparing a full English, with extra rashers of bacon and two slices of French toast on the side, despite feeling like death warmed up. Since he’s got some serious grovelling to do.

Louis might feel differently this morning, and have forgotten about their little moment last night.

He places everything neatly onto a tray and takes it into Louis’ room with tentative steps, praying for at least no yelling now that they've both sobered up and Louis may not be so forgiving.

“Come to butter me up have you?” Louis rasps, as he peaks an eye open, arm flung over the duvet, squinting and rolling over onto his stomach. He looks sleepy and has bed hair and it reminds Harry distinctly of _sex_. He nips that indecent thought in the bud immediately, especially for this time of the morning, and he certainly doesn't want to deliver Louis his breakfast to him with an eyeful of a hard line in his boxers.

“Made you breakfast,” Harry announces proudly, bare feet padding over to him and sticking to the wooden flooring. 

Louis sits up obediently, eyebrows rising somewhere near his hairline, bleary eyed and barely awake, as Harry places the tray of steaming breakfast atop his lap. His hair is still mussed from sleep, and he looks so soft and small as he manages a grateful smile, before Harry unceremoniously climbs under the covers with him, almost knocking Louis in the face with his elbow as Louis slowly sips his tea which earns Harry a glare.

Harry smiles sheepishly. 

"You didn't have to do this, you know," Louis says as he gulps his tea. 

"Wanted to," Harry insists, doesn't mention it's another way of apologising for his less-than-friendly introduction to his new boyfriend.

And each time he thinks about the B word Harry feels a little more sick. (He’s sick of feeling sick.)

He sits with his back against the headboard, mirroring Louis as he pokes his bottom lip out, letting his thumb run over it, unable to just stop  _looking_ at him.

Louis sends him a coy glance. "Well, thank you." 

But there’s still tension in the air between them and Harry just wants it to disappear. Louis’ gaze falls to the daisy Harry's put in a thin vase on the tray and rolls his eyes, but Harry can see the fight it takes Louis’ mouth not to pull upwards into a fond smile, and Harry smiles timidly back at him, just watching.

“Are you going to stare at me while I eat?” Louis wonders, takes a bite of the bacon and cuts a part of the toast with it. It’s not one of his normal fond looks yet but his tone doesn’t sound displeased so Harry figures he can’t be that mad at him now. If anything he seems a bit unsure around Harry.

Harry shrugs, daring to inch that bit closer so that their shoulders brush. “I like watching you eat. You look cute,” he says, unabashed.

Louis makes an amused sound. “I know. You’re a quirky fella, aren't you?" Harry nods and Louis shakes his head as he delicately chews on a piece of egg and toast, Harry’s eyes trained on the way he dips them into the runny egg yolk, blindly using the remote on the bedside table to switch the TV on.

He lets the silence that sits between them drag on a bit, absently staring at some cooking show that's on as he plays restlessly with his hands, tugging on the hem of his Rolling Stones t-shirt that has far too many holes in, and then decides to brave resting his chin lightly on Louis’ shoulder, very lightly, just incase he slaps him off. He feels Louis stiffen momentarily but he soon relaxes into Harry’s touch. Thank god.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs into his t-shirt.

"You already said so last night," Louis sighs.

"Well, last night is kinda fuzzy in my brain after I threw up so...thought I'd make sure I told you again."

Louis puts his knife and fork down after having inhaled most of the food under four minutes flat. He puts the tray on the floor and sits back up, looking at Harry with an uneasy expression.

Harry frowns.

"I know, but you don't have to keep apologizing, alright? Though, I would like to know why even when you’re drunk, you’re still unbelievably polite, and yet last night you were anything but.” Louis folds his arms, brows furrowed, but he doesn’t shove Harry off of him so that’s something. In fact, he seems to be somewhere else completely. 

“It caught me off guard,” Harry says quietly.

Louis raises an eyebrow.

“You never told me you were dating,” Harry protests, sitting up owlishly. “You’d know if I was." Louis seems to wince at that and snaps his head away. Harry pulls his brows together. "So why didn’t you tell me?” he nudges Louis' arm gently, keeping his voice soft.

“I wasn’t sure if it was worth mentioning just yet,” he dismisses. “I wanted to wait until we’d gone on a few more dates first," Louis mumbles. It's unconvincing to say the least. Something doesn’t sit right.

“Oh. How many have there been?” Harry says hesitantly.

“Well, like, I’ve been seeing him on and off over the last couple of months...” Louis shrugs, still looking away.

He seems distant. Harry doesn’t like this one bit.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Louis sighs.

Harry grimaces, chest tight, and quickly works to school his face into something more neutral.

You know, less like he’s contemplating walking into traffic as he thinks about the times he greeted a sleepy, fluffy haired Louis for coffee in the mornings, and less like he’s wondering whether that was his post-sex hair with someone else.

Someone _else_? Of course it’s with someone  _else._ It’s not like it’s ever been him has it?

Harry feels weird. Like, tummy full-blown unsettled and uncomfortable weird. He stares at Louis as he bites his nails, silently trying to repress an outburst or some kind of meltdown of word vomit.

Then he remembers the conversation he had with Niall last night.

Oh, god. He may have wailed to Niall about being in love with Louis. Maybe even to Liam, Perrie and who knows who else, too. Anyone who would listen, probably. He thinks he even remembers calling his mum.

Christ.

Everything went from zero to one hundred really fucking quickly.

Harry might have whiplash.

(He blames Liam for this.)

(He’s going to leave a strongly worded voicemail for him.)

(Seeing as he brought this Louis thing up again after Harry had successfully shoved it into a locked cupboard in his brain.)

(And now he’s in love with him.)

(Thanks, Liam.)

Why is this happening to him? This is horrible. Being in love is horrible.

Especially as Harry's pretty sure Louis doesn't even see him that way, or something would have happened by now, right? Flirting doesn’t count. Louis would have told him if he felt differently, wouldn't he?

And he hasn't.

So...that's that?

Fuck, Harry can't deal with this. He shuts his eyes and hides his face in Louis' neck, hopes his smell with calm him down. It does. A bit. Too bad he can’t stay here like this forever.

Boo, world. You suck.

“Harry, you’re still my favourite boy, okay? My favourite person in general, actually,” Louis says, voice dipped in affection now as he pulls Harry bodily to his side, wrapping his arms around his chest and safely interlocking them, while Harry considers what he drunkenly decided to do last night.

He promised himself he’d tell Louis how he felt, but now he’s here with him, he doesn’t think he can after all.

Because what if he doesn't feel the same? Their friendship will effectively be over. How can they carry on the way they are if Louis knows how Harry feels and he doesn’t feel the same back?

Harry can't lose him. He can't.

“I know. You are for me too. Always,” Harry says, moving his head to look up at him.

“Well, good,” Louis smiles. “And thank you for making me a lovely breakfast. You’re forgiven.” 

“Thanks,” Harry smirks.

Louis pats his leg and Harry tries not to react to the contact, despite his full on body jolt. He hopes Louis didn't notice. "Come on. Let's get dressed and go for a walk, yeah? Get to know our new neighbourhood better, shall we?"

"Okay." Harry smiles and nuzzles Louis' hand as it caresses his cheek, watches him strip off his white t-shirt with only a minor amount of despair. It's fine. He can do this. It'll wear off, this being in love thing. Completely doable to live with this. He's got it all under control. Louis' his best friend, first and foremost. 

In the meantime, he'll just wait until Louis realises he's supposed to be with him instead. Yeah. Good plan.

**

“I’m not in a mood,” Harry grumbles, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as he sits on a plush sofa in Starbucks, attempting to concentrate his attention on the comforting, saliva-inducing aroma of coffee beans, the scent of sweet syrup that's soothing the fucking god-awful headache he’s been suffering with since he realised he’s actually hopelessly in love with his best friend.

And everyone seems to know apart from Louis.

So life is just hunky dory. 

“I need more caffeine."

"You've had like three coffees today, Harry. You're not going to sleep at all at this rate," Liam chastises, pulling on his ear.

Exactly. Because he  _can’t_  fall asleep. Not when there’s the constant possibility (and crushing fear) that Louis might bring Aiden home at any given moment, thanks.

Things have not been good amongst dodging them back at the flat, hurriedly disregarding a half-made sandwich and shutting himself in the bathroom, or burying the evidence of having made cupcakes even though the flat distinctly smells of buttercream, steering clear of their local pub, and trying to avoid them as a topic of conversation at all costs.

Harry hasn't been a good mood since Friday before 12:35am.

Nope. Harry is now mush. Burnt, smudged mush that gets thrown in the bin after a particularly bad batch of sponge goes wrong. That’s Harry. A mess, and forgotten. He doesn’t even think Louis’ noticed his absence much. Which is another punch to the gut. He doesn’t even have time to  _miss_ him, is probably too preoccupied with rolling around with someone else at all hours of the day to give Harry a second thought.

But Harry misses Louis.

Misses him quite terribly, in fact. And now he feels distinctly miserable, eyeing the sandwich that’s still in its wrapper on the table and thinking it can stay there now.

God, why is this happening to him?

He blew off lunch with Louis and Aiden as well this morning, after rescheduling twice already. So he’s now in hiding, having been avoiding Louis as much as he could this whole week. Despite living with him. It’s a harder task than he thought. 

Liam’s sitting next to him, has practically sat on top of Harry for the entirety of them being here—Liam becomes a human puppy when he knows he’s upset—Harry looks dejected and forlorn while Liam constantly pokes and prods and messes up his hair, which he’s been dedicated to doing for the last fifteen minutes. He's currently attempting to plait it. It's not going well. 

“Oh, no,” Liam says sarcastically, “of course you’re not, and you’re definitely not at all jealous of Louis’ new boy, are you?”

“Say that phrase again and I’ll shove you off this sofa.”

Harry stares at him icily, hunched up and buried with his thick burgundy scarf around his neck.

But Liam continues on.

“How could I have possibly come up with such a scenario when you’re sitting here like the human incarnation of the Grumpy Cat.” Liam rolls his eyes, pushing a thick strand of Harry’s hair above his top lip like a moustache. “How silly of me.”

Harry gives him an unimpressed stare, eyes itchy from lack of sleep and nightmares about Louis suddenly announcing he’s moving out to get married and have a life where Harry is not included.

Yeah, okay, so he’s getting ahead of himself but he’s sad and wants to wallow a bit longer. Not like he has any idea what to do about this, anyway.

“Oh, come on, sunshine. Give us a smile,” Liam coos, grinning and bopping Harry’s nose repeatedly, scrunching his cheeks with his hands to force him to muster up an expression akin to ‘fine’.

Harry gives him a pained grimace. It’s dire.

“Bloody hell,” Liam sighs loudly, tipping his head back over the velvet green settee. Harry absently notes he has a coat made of this material. He should have a brought a coat, in fact. This jumper he’s wearing is too thin and a tad fitted (it’s Louis’ and carrying his scent around with makes him miss him more) and his toes are ice cubes, to be honest.

“I’m cold, Liam,” he mumbles, lips pulled downwards.

Liam instantly pulls his coat from underneath his bum and drapes it over Harry’s hunched up body, tucking it just under his chin, wrapping his face with his hands and then pecking his cheek once. Harry finally feels his face slowly spread into a contented smile, pleased. He loves Liam a lot.

“Better?” Liam says, releases his face and bends down to reach his mug, taking a large sip of his latte.

Harry smiles wider, dimples popping. He nods, covered in Liam’s warm sheep skin collared coat, letting his eyes flicker until they close, but not before seeing Liam rolls his eyes at him fondly. “Honestly. You’re like a big baby.”

But before Harry can shoot back an indignant comment, his whole body stiffens, ears spiking when an achingly familiar, raspy laugh rings through the proximity. He glances at Liam in a silent plea for help and hastily ducks his head underneath the coat.

“Payno,” he hears Louis greet sunnily. He buries himself deeper under the coat, trying to coil his long legs inwards by the low table.

“Alright, Tommo,” Liam says, and Harry can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Why is Harry hiding underneath your coat?” Niall, the traitor, asks. So what if they can see his legs, anyway? Niall has purposely drawn attention to him now. Bastard.

“Harry?” Louis says, plonking himself unceremoniously into Harry’s lap and winding him.

“Oof,” Harry grunts, now lying half down the sofa and sinking still, blinking owlishly up at Louis as the coat slips down to his chest, half-way to the dusty floor. “Um, hi, Lou.”

“What are you doing under there?” Louis chuckles, grin almost blinding him, before soft, gentle fingertips easily slip into Harry’s hair, threading through his messy curls, sticking up every which way. The sensation is soothing, custom, and Harry’s eyelids instantly begin to droop. "Not feeling well?"

Harry tries not to stare too blatantly, but fails completely, is only able to focus on the precise curve of his lips, peach tinted and outlined with a faint smattering of stubble, and oh god, Harry just wants to press his lips to his, slot them together because he knows they’d fit together perfectly.

He manages a non-committal, barely there roll of the shoulders, hastily diverting his gaze when Louis’ lips upturn in a smirk. Fuck. “Nah, I'm fine. Just...hanging out. What are you doing?”

His voice croaks on the last syllable. Shit. He shifts his bum on the seat, until he realises that, no... No. _Nope_. Don’t move. Moving is a bad, bad idea... Thank fuck for this coat.

“You’re acting weird,” Louis frowns.

“I am weird.”

Louis continues to stare at Harry, unblinking. “True,” he says finally, “and I love you for it, but you’re weirder than normal.” Louis puts his small palm (oh god, it’s so cute, fuck, he just wants to press it to his mouth) to Harry’s forehead. Harry instantly leans into the touch, craving his hands all over his skin, a quiet exhale escaping his throat. “Hmm, you do feel a bit warm,” he says, sweeping away the stray curls that have fallen into his eyes, tucking them delicately behind his ears. Harry gulps. “You look a bit flushed, too.”

Yeah, no shit, when he’s got a boner under this coat that’s begging for attention.

Liam snorts, probably louder than he intended, hazel brown eyes widening and quickly scrambling to cover it up with an unconvincing cough. Harry glares his way, Liam diverting his gaze and pretending to whistle. (Which, for god's sake. He can’t even fucking whistle.)

 _Flushed_ , he says.

Louis is sitting directly on Harry’s _crotch_ , for fuck’s sake. Of course he's fucking flushed. It never used to bother him before, but now his body and skin and brain is hyper aware of every sensation Louis stirs within his innards and it’s literal  _torture_. Any second now he’ll start whimpering. Louis’ very presence is on its way to giving him an aneurysm. He’s so  _affected_ right now, in more ways than one.

Harry scrambles to use Liam’s coat as a shield, hoping he’s not being obvious, despite the very obvious boner he's popping. Fuck.

“Ah, our poor boy here is depressed because he’s just so—” Niall starts cooing. Harry sends a metaphorical lightning bolt his way as his anger sizzles Niall to embers. Even Liam cringes.

This isn’t going to be a secret for long. Jesus.

Niall spots his death glare and seems to catch himself, realising Louis was the one speaking, not Liam, half-cringing, half-laughing. He presses his lips together so hard it almost looks painful, suppressing his high amusement.

"What? Why? What's the matter?" Louis whirls around, brows pulled in deep concern as his hand slides down from his hair to the side of Harry's red face, cupping it gently.

Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat. Harry loves him so much. But now he’s going to ask a million questions. He’ll keep probing and nudging until Harry spills his guts to him, like he always does. 

What’s he supposed to say?

He can’t tell him the truth. Not yet. Not until he’s figured out if there’s anything on Louis’ side that will convince him what he feels is reciprocated and not simply platonic. That there’s hope dangling on a thread somewhere, if Harry keeps on looking closely enough.

Louis’ still looking at him, expectant, brows still furrowed and seemingly searching Harry’s face for answers, for any hint that’s not quite masked itself. He knows Harry too well. Which is what’s going to make lying to him that much harder.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. "I am."

Louis observes him with narrowed eyes, eyebrows dubious. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, smiling as best he can. “I’m fine. Really. Just haven’t been sleeping that great, that’s all.”  _Because you’ve not slept in the same bed as me since we moved in_ , he doesn’t say.

“Oh...well—” Louis stops himself, aware of the other boys’ eyes on him. Niall clears his throat and gestures towards the counter top, wandering off to order himself a mocha frappe probably.

Liam picks up his empty mug. “I’m gonna order another. Lou, want anything?”

“Can I have a tea, please?” Louis says.

Liam nods, sending one more perceptive glance Harry’s way.

“What were you saying?” Harry murmurs, fingers finding Louis’ waist and bunching the fabric of his t-shirt underneath his huge denim jacket.

Louis stares at him a long moment as Harry gingerly strokes his side.

“Um, I was just going to say, why don’t I sleep in your bed tonight? Might need something familiar to help you drift off, yeah?” He smiles softly, a tad coy. Harry doesn't like it. Harry's the one having a meltdown over being in love with him now. Why’s Louis acting unsure of how to act around him suddenly? “You know, since it’s still a new setting? Maybe you still need to get used to the place?”

Harry nods embarrassingly fast. “Okay, yeah. Might help.” 

Louis smiles, seemingly pleased. “Okay, good.”

“Oh, don’t forget it’s _Friends_ night,” Harry remembers, smiling.

“As if I’d forget. Besides, I’ve not seen you much this week,” Louis says more quietly, voice tinged with hint of hurt, sounding almost wounded. A stab of guilt digs its way into Harry’s chest. “It will be nice to spend a first proper evening in our flat together.”

“I know,” Harry murmurs. “Missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

Harry rests his head on Louis’ chest, listens to the steady, familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. He tries to push down the bitter thoughts running through his head on a loop like,  _maybe don’t keep ditching me for your boyfriend, then._

Another stab of guilt and misery runs through him.

“Okay, so I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” Louis says, removing himself from Harry’s lap, his hand falling from Louis’ hip limply. He instantly misses him.

“Oh, you’re not staying?” Harry says forlornly.

“Can’t. Meeting Aiden,” Louis answers apologetically, staring at Harry as though he’s wary of his reaction.

“Cool,” Harry grits out. “Make sure you’re not late, though. Eight on the dot, young man.” Harry points a warning finger at him.

Louis giggles as he grabs Harry’s finger, lingering there. Harry doesn’t want him to let it go. “Yeah, yeah.” He presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek and scurries off, waving to the guys on his way out.

“Oh, great, I just brought him a tea,” Liam says, pouting, taking a sip of it himself.

Harry slinks hopelessly down the sofa, bunching Liam’s coat up and buries his face in it, and this time, he releases the whimpers, stiffy long gone.

“Mate, shouldn’t you talk to him? How long are you going to let this go on for?” Liam says, sitting back down with his fresh mug.

“When I get any sort of solid hint that Louis feels the same. Until then, I will suffer in silence and plan my escape from the country should the worst happens and Louis rejects me.”

“He’s not gonna reject you, you idiot,” Niall says, throwing himself and a spaghetti arm around Harry with, yes, a mocha frappuccino and suckling on the straw noisily. “Unless you wait until the eve of his wedding, that is,” he snorts.

Liam leans over and smacks Niall with a rolled up flyer, eyebrows furrowed. Niall glowers from around his straw.

Harry groans, slinking down even further until his legs are bent uncomfortably, and lifts Liam’s coat back over his head, sandwiched between his entirely unhelpful friends. He cuddles into them anyway.

**

It’s well past midnight and Louis still isn’t home for their _Friends_  marathon.

Everything smells of betrayal.

Harry had splurged on the most expensive tub of strawberry cheesecake ice cream that Louis loves, ordered pizza in, making sure they added extra pepperoni for Louis, too, and had a large glass of red already poured out on the side, as he sat on the sofa, bundled up in a sea of blankets, slurping on his own glass as he patiently waited for Louis to arrive at eight on the dot.

Like he alwaysdoes.

So where was he?

Harry thought now that they lived together, it would be even better, even cosier. Because this place is theirs, their home.

But it’s the first Friday night that Louis’ ever missed.

To say Harry was upset was an understatement. He was curled up in the duvet cover he brought out from Louis’ room (purely to inhale because he’s in so love, a freak in love—to which he realised with a start that he’s always sniffed Louis’ clothes and his hair and his general scent regularly...oops), and had consumed over half the bottle of red when it clocked past half nine—and Louis _still_  wasn’t there.

He whimpered into a long since tepid pizza slice, and stuffed it all pathetically into his mouth while he forced the hurt back down his throat and forced the pizza inside.

He left season four of  _Friends_  running, staring sightlessly at it, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to produce the slightest giggle at any of the best gags, not even when his favourite episode,  _The One Where They Lose The Apartment_ came on.

Harry texted Louis five times, and called twice. Both went straight to voicemail, but he wouldn’t dignify him with another text when he finally did reply because Harry was pissed off as it was.

See, Harry was quite worried at first because Louis usually lets him know he’s on his way.

So when an hour had gone by and Louis hadn’t contacted him, he was about to go frantically searching the streets and the hospitals for him.

Because no matter what he’s doing, Louis always makes sure he’s available. It’s only one Friday evening per month anyway. Louis has only ever missed it twice in the three years since they made it a thing. Once in their second year at uni, when Louis had a wedding reception to attend, and last year when he’d gotten so smashed from some day drinking with Niall one afternoon after a terrible interview, that Harry spent the whole evening tending to Louis as he threw up every half hour. (He had a bucket by the bed and hugged Louis from behind as Harry fell asleep to his loud snores).

But when Louis did text all it said was:

_I’m so sorry, there’s been a change of plans with Aiden. I’ll make it up to u, promise. Save me some pizza? Xx_

What?

Save him some fucking pizza?

After he just blew him off for his boyfriend?

No fucking way. Harry wanted to chuck his phone at the wall in blind rage, but he didn’t. They’re very expensive.

Instead, Harry stuffed as much pizza as he could into his mouth, before he started to feel really ill, (because Louis always shares with him and he can’t finish it by himself) so he caved and left Louis just under half. (Because of course he was still going to.)

So now Harry’s restlessly tossing and turning in his bed, with a bruised heart and an actual bruised arm (because he whacked into the freezer earlier, distracted by the thought that Louis might bring Aiden home after) and fuck Harry’s life, because he’s just heard the door click open.

He freezes when he hears a hushed voice, or voices? Of Louis and presumably Aiden, as they move not-very-quietly around the kitchen outside of Harry’s bedroom, and Harry is going to _die_  as he tries to mentally bleach the image of Louis and Aiden doing  _things_  from his mind, before the pizza and red wine makes an awful combination in his toilet.

He can't believe this. Louis’ brought him home? He’s brought the fucker  _home_. While he knows Harry is home? Oh god. They’re going to have sex. While Harry sleeps. This can’t be happening. What has he done to deserve this misery?

Harry wants to scream, holding onto his pillow in a death grip as he struggles not to go out there and tell them to get the fuck out.

There is no way in hell he can possibly stay here tonight, not with them in the opposite bedroom doing fuck knows what.

This is the sickest form of torture that Louis has no idea he’s even inflicting upon Harry.

He shoves his face into his pillow, tries desperately to think of something else, something innocent and pure, like kittens and babies, but with the insistence whispering going on out there, Harry huffs and heaves himself out of bed, wincing when his bare feet touch the floor. He sifts through his clothes and throws on a hoodie, shoves his legs into a pair of joggers, grabs his phone and stuffs a beanie on his head.

How is this his life? Harry is close to livid.

He gingerly tip toes over to the door and opens it as silently as possible, praying he can get to his trainers by the door and scarper unnoticed, temples throbbing with jealousy and incredulity at what’s happening.

It’s just as he’s creeping into the kitchen and past the sofa to get to the front door, that Louis walks out of the bathroom while on the phone, cheeks flushed and fringe slightly sweaty, his pupils blown, most of the blue having dissipated, leaving a thin ring circling the darkened irises.

He’s obviously under the influence, balance askew and movements careless, clutching his phone.

Harry stands completely still, just watching him, while Louis is there, not realising Harry is. Louis wipes at his face, at his eyes, and is he...is he crying? Louis is  _crying._  Harry’s mind goes into overdrive, completely focused on nothing but his boy, brows aggressively pulling together.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Harry asks immediately, sappily, but letting worry take over his limbs and brain and general existence.

Because Louis is upset.

And there seems to be no sign of Aiden.

Huh.

Louis whips his head up, momentarily startled and then just stares at Harry with glazed eyes, face proceeding to crumple further. “Hug me, please?” he croaks, but it’s a touch whiny, so Harry knows whatever happened to get him like this can’t be too serious, thankfully.

Obviously, Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s already there in Louis’ space, scooping him up in his arms, and winding them securely around his waist. “Hey, what’s wrong, love?” Louis jumps up and wraps his legs around him, cold hands clinging to Harry’s back as he sniffles into his neck wetly.

Harry’s heart must be a peach, because the amount of bruises it’s taken lately is at breaking point. It’s probably a decomposed, browning thing by now, barely able to pulse or pump his sludgy despairing blood around any longer.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Harry murmurs into his hair, Louis gripping his body tighter, as though he can hardly stand the inch left of space between them. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Louis grunts, the sound muffled in Harry’s neck.

“Okay. Shall we go to bed, then? Have you had some water?”

“Got a bottle on the side,” Louis only just mumbles, Harry straining to hear him. “Don’t wanna talk.”

“Alright, we’ll take that to my room, yeah?” Harry picks up the bottle on the kitchen worktop as he passes to get to his bedroom, focused only on Louis and trying not to worry too much over why he’s upset. He just loves taking care of him, takes pride in the fact that Louis will always come to him first. “Come on. We’ll snuggle up and be quiet and warm and sleep for three days in a row, yeah? No one will bother us. It’ll just be us. You and me.”

Louis produces another lazy grunt. Harry figures it’s the good kind.

They get to Harry’s room and he coaxes Louis to climb under the covers. Louis does as soon as he pulls on one of Harry’s grey hoodies, the ends covering his hands like adorable sweater paws, and tucks himself under the arm that Harry stretches out for Louis to burrow into. He hugs him close and drapes the duvet almost over their heads, warm and safe, planting a kiss to Louis’ temple. “Night, Lou,” Harry rumbles from his chest, which relaxes instinctively under Louis’ touch. “Love you,” he whispers into his hair, fingertips lightly trailing along Louis’ bristly jawline, aching with the different weight those words now hold.

Louis breathes something indistinct and muffled into Harry’s shoulder. Or maybe Harry imagined it, but then Louis is drifting off to sleep anyhow, limbs encircling Harry’s body.

**

After another fitful night of sporadic sleep, and his inability to think about anything but his feelings, Harry wakes up to a freezing flat and a balmy Louis plastered to his back, his breath tickling his nape and his forehead stuck to Harry’s neck.

Even being near him is starting to become torturous. Just looking at him manages to take his breath away, all while Louis is completely oblivious to Harry’s inner turmoil.

Not only is there a unrelenting, longing ache is his chest that’s doing its best to tear Harry’s insides out, missing him, pining for him, despite the fact he’s here with him now, with his fingers tangled with his, but there’s also this...desire. A mad bout of lust, if you will.

Harry wants.

Really, really  _wants_.

Evident by the fact that Harry is currently incredibly hard, desperate to start grinding back into Louis’ own crotch to see if he’s as hard as he is.

Perfect. Just brilliant.

Of course, it’s probably partly due to his biological tendencies, (it’s not very often he doesn’t wake up with a raging stiffy) but he also barely slept last night and Louis is in his bed with him, for the first time since they basically moved in.

Paired with the knowledge of his all-encompassing love for him...well. It may be a natural occurrence, but Harry wants to die.

How on earth is he supposed to get out of bed without waking Louis? The lightest sleeper he’s ever come across. And without Louis noticing the very obvious bulge in his boxers.

Sure, it’s happened plenty of times to them both when they’ve woken up in the mornings, tangled together.

Which, yeah. Harry now realises is weird that they did that at all when they’re supposed to be just friends.

He’s pretty sure the general consensus is that friends don’t sleep in the same bed.

But then Louis and Harry always were closer than most friends. Best friends, yes. But it went beyond that. They’ve always fit together seamlessly. Everything was so easy, uncomplicated, affectionate.

Now, though...

Nothing could be more complicated.

Did Harry mention he wants to go bury himself?

There’s a good chance of that if Louis wakes up and sees how affected and flustered Harry is merely because of holding his hand.

It gets worse when Louis stirs and slides his hand further down his stomach, dangerously close to where his dick is painfully pressing against his stomach.

And then there’s the other pressing detail of Harry not knowing how long he should wait to ask what last night’s intoxicated tears were about, and praying it’s not because Louis actually wishes he were somewhere else, or  _with_  someone else...

Pain. It burns.

All the things that were simple before, second nature, things he did without batting an eyelid, are now a mammoth task Harry has no idea how to approach anymore.

Why is being in love with your best friend so fucking hard?

Wasn’t it supposed to be easy? Since both people know each other inside out?

Apparently not for Harry.

Because the universe has some kind of personal vendetta against him where love is concerned.

(It’s because Harry stepped on that poor frog and crushed it to death, isn’t it? The goddesses of nature have cursed Harry to never be able to get his prince. Shit. Why couldn’t six year old Harry have been more careful.)

(He should have blamed it on Gemma...unless they see everything...but it was an accident!)

(Poor Frank. He named it. Held a funeral for it and everything. Surely, that counts for something?)

(Perhaps Harry is still a little intoxicated himself.)

(That, or love has made him go mad.)

Harry carefully inches himself away from Louis’ body, rolling over onto his back on his side of the mattress.

Louis stirs. Shit.

Harry pulls the duvet up and hopes he’s covering most of his dignity, clearing his throat as he cranes his head. Louis’ eyelids flicker open, blinking rapidly.

"Hey," he rasps. 

“Hey,” Harry smiles, and...he’s so much. He’s just so much. All fluffy hair and drooping eyelids, bright blue blinking awake, yawning into his small fist. Harry’s heart constricts painfully in his chest, throat dry and his lower half feeling very uncomfortable.

This isn’t helping his situation.

He could waddle to the bathroom, quickly explaining it’s his ‘morning wood’, but his face is going to scream  _guilty_.

Because this time it’s absolutely Louis’ fault.

He’s got Louis on the brain.

Louis. Louis. Louis.

Louis shuffles up the bed, scooting closer to Harry.

And oh god. He just moved precisely to get some distance. Now Louis’ closing the gap again.

Several moments of silence tick by.

“So...do you want to talk about anything or—” Harry tries, going for casual, and ending up sounding strained. He doesn’t actually want to know the answer, not if it’s about something he really can’t let his heart hear about, but if Louis is genuinely upset about last night, then Harry wants to fix it. Of course he does.

He reaches out and sweeps his fingers over Louis’ scalp, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, willing his erection to go down. If anything stroking Louis like this is making it worse.

Louis' cold toes are pressing into Harry's calf. He looks up at him from where his chin is rested on his shoulder. “Do  _you?_ ”

Harry shrugs. He can never pull of nonchalant well enough. Louis always calls him out and asks what's really wrong. “Well, not about anything in particular. I just thought you might want to?”

There’s a weird tension in the air again. Harry tenses up, unsure, fingers stilling in Louis’ hair.

God, why is this so difficult?

But before Harry can re-fill the silence and stop driving himself crazy with his hopelessly lovesick thoughts, Louis speaks up suddenly, “I’m sorry, Harry.” He’s so earnest and quiet; it prickles Harry’s innards.

Everything about him makes him want to coo, and fuss, and beam, and squeeze him tight.

But he did all that before.

He thought all that before.

It’s just he’s aware of how he feels now.

“What for?” Harry resumes caressing Louis’ forehead, frowning.

"For missing last night. It was so shitty of me. I can’t believe I forgot. Tell me off. I really am sorry I missed our night, Harry.” Louis buries his face in his neck.

A laugh startles out of him. "Louis, it's fine, really."

Louis gives him a questioning look.

"Okay, so, maybe I was a little put out at first.” Louis’ eyebrows arch higher. “Alright. No. I was upset.” Louis exhales, eyes downcast, guilty. Harry grabs for his hand. “But, I can't just hog all your Fridays, can I? I’m not your boyfriend, am I?” he says very quietly.

Louis’ eyes meet his, his face unreadable, and then they dart away again.

"It's one Friday a month, though,” he sighs. “Thing is...I got a bit drunk last night. Things happened. Secrets came out. Spilled a lot of alcohol on the floor and on myself. It wasn't good." Louis chuckles, self-deprecating. 

Secrets?

"Why  _were_  you drunk? I’m guessing it wasn’t because you had a good time,” Harry prods, holding back a wince, really not wanting to hear the gossip about Louis’ love life.

“I um...I’m not going out with Aiden anymore.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“It’s okay, I’m fine with it,” Louis rushes out. “Really. Didn’t even like him that much anyway.” He smiles. Oddly, it seems genuine, squeezing two of Harry’s fingers.

Harry’s insides feel like jelly but he continues on. Confused. “Okay...but, why were you so upset when you came home, then?”

“Because I got served some harsh truths. Made me think a bit too hard about some...stuff.  And what I probably shouldn't do about it, not if I don’t want to ruin something important to me.”

Harry frowns, even more confused. Is there someone else? Something work related? “Sounds ominous. Care to share?”

“Nah. Not quite yet,” he smiles.

“Oh, okay,” Harry says, disappointed.

“Soon, though. Maybe. If I’m brave enough.”

“Well, you’re the bravest person I know, Lou, so of course you will be. Even if it takes a little while. I’m here, you know. You can tell me anything.”

“Obviously, you can, too. Always. Love you,” Louis implores, seemingly pressing gently for more.

“I know that. Love you, too,” Harry nudges his nose on Louis’ shoulder.

Too bad Harry can’t take his own advice.

Fortunately, his boner seems to have gone down significantly.

“Good.” Louis looks at him, unsure and so Harry kisses his nose, smiling when it makes Louis giggle and his eyes crinkle.

Maybe he should think about telling him now. What else is standing in the way but Harry’s nerves?

First though, he needs to talk to the boys for moral support. You know, just incase Harry ends up on a ledge that he needs talking down from. It's certainty always good to be prepared.

**

Several days pass and Louis doesn’t mention the A word once. Which is good for Harry, except Louis has been acting bizarrely subdued. Which, yes. Of course Louis will be off. He’s newly single again. And Harry still isn’t sure who did the dumping, but Louis said he was fine, and he seemed to mean it.

But it’s not only that which has Harry’s nose scrunching in confusion more often than not lately.

Because whenever Harry moves in for a cuddle first thing in the morning, or idly rests his head against his shoulder while they’re watching TV, or when Harry holds out a spoon with sauce on that he’s just mixed to taste, Louis seems to get this startled look on his face, either stiffening up and awkwardly changing the subject, or jolting like he’s been burned and quickly scuttling out of the room with a mumbled excuse.

It’s bewildering.

And odd.

To be honest, it’s not that Louis has been quieter per se, but it’s that he’s avoiding Harry’s (admittedly) usual clingy, tactile actions at all costs. It’s like they’ve never touched before. And Harry has no clue what to make of it. Should he be worried? Offended? Upset?

He is upset.

And worried. A lot.

Because Harry has no idea what he’s done to garner such distant behaviour. He just wants to be near Louis, to be with him, doing nothing or everything, as they always have.

And now it’s changed and Harry is at a loss as to what to do, or say, or how to even act around him.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry says now, tone hesitant, as he languidly loads the dishwasher (Louis actually helped clear up which almost never happens unless he feels guilty about something, which is kind of worrying but Harry won’t complain just yet), eyes stuck on Louis and his palm resting against his face on the worktop. He’s scrolling through his phone, not saying much, expression sombre. It’s very unsettling. There’s got to be something wrong.

 Louis hums in acknowledgement, eyes still trained on his phone’s screen, his brows pull together for a second before smoothing out again.

“What have you done with my obnoxious best friend?” he jokes with a lazy lopsided smile.

“Excuse you,” Louis instantly shoots back, feigning shock. “Take that back. I’m delightful.” A smirk creeps onto his face.

Harry grins. “Debatable.”

“How dare you!” Louis proceeds to open the tin of teabags disregarded on the worktop and starts chucking them at Harry’s head. Harry giggles as he dodges them unsuccessfully.

“Oh, wait. I didn’t quite think that through,” Louis cringes as he takes in the amount that have landed on the kitchen floor. “What a fucking waste of tea. I’m ashamed of meself.”

Harry exhales a sigh of relief through another breathy laugh. “It’s only five teabags, Lou.”

“Five teabags too many, Harold!”

Harry continues to watch him fondly, giggling as Louis smiles brightly, wider than he has for the last four days.

Then of course Harry has to go and ruin the mood.

“So. Missing the dating game yet?” he mumbles, eyes settled on the swirly pattern of the dishtowel in his hands. He looks up in time to see Louis’ smile slips off, body immediately going stiff once more. “Louis?" he frowns. "What is it? I know there’s something, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s because of Aiden.”

Louis sighs.

“Does it have something to do with what you said the other night?”

Louis sinks his teeth into his lip, and diverts his gaze.

“Let’s go out,” Louis says suddenly, the stool making a loud screeching noise as he stands up. He takes the dishtowel out of Harry’s hand and tugs him along, striding towards their coats that are untidily hanging beside the front door.

“Now?” Harry blinks, frowning. “Louis, it’s a Wednesday night.”

“I don’t mean go clubbing or anything. I mean let’s go for a walk. Just me and you. We’ll get coffee. Starbucks doesn’t close until eight, right?”

“Um. I think so.”

Harry lets himself be manhandled by Louis’ insistent hands, helping him into his coat and hastily tying Harry’s scarf around his neck, eyes already scanning for his boots when Harry stops him, laughter bubbling up his throat. “Lou, I can put my own shoes on, you know.”

“Oh, yeah,” Louis chuckles, but his cheeks are aflame as he shrugs on his own jacket and stuffs his feet into a pair of lace up boots.

But at least Louis is trying to get them back to normal again.

Small victories.

An hour later and Harry finds himself on his bum on the sludgy ground of their nearby park, nose cold and teeth chattering as his eyes stay fixed to the boy on his left, hugging his drawn up legs.

Louis’ ridiculously spread out on his back in the fucking piles of leaves on the grass lawn. This muddy, very wet lawn. And it’s dark. And it’s horrible out. Their breath is coming out as icy mist and their lips are chapped and likely rapidly turning blue, it’s that cold.

And here’s Louis next to him, beanie askew, the one Harry bought on a whim while they were shopping in a women’s accessory store looking for presents for their sisters. (And for Harry). It’s pink and has a cute fluffy pom on the top and Louis looks so adorable with it on, so soft and snugly and childlike, but his eyes give him away, still glittering with tomfoolery and Harry thinks he’s the coolest person he knows.

“Look how cool you look. Rockin’ that pink pom, eh? Amazing,” Harry comments, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.

“Give it a rest,” Louis drawls, coy and breathy, shaking his head and absently touching his fringe.

He just is. It’s the first thing Harry ever thought as soon as he met him. Then it was that he was super bloody gorgeous, unbelievably pretty in an alluring, kind of real life Peter Pan way, and then he realised Louis was one of, if not, the nicest person he’d ever met.

It’s safe to say Louis made a fantastic  first impression on Harry, one that’s lasted effortlessly. So it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that Harry is here now, really. Harry knew in the back of his mind that he was susceptible to falling in love with Louis eventually.

He just hopes Louis was just as vulnerable to that little idea, too.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else?” Harry says with a smirk, though something nervous and heavy sits in stomach as he says it, partly some truth in his words. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to do something fun.”

Wistfulness creeps back into Harry’s cells.

But he’s soon plucked out of his heavy thoughts of Louis worship when he feels Louis’ hand playfully shove his shoulder. Harry instantly warms, grinning.

“Oi! None of that,” Louis says with a frown. “You listen here, Mr Curly Locks.” He clutches Harry’s hand, numb from the cold. He’s still not immune to the hot sparks it sends shooting through Harry’s skin. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be than laying here amongst a bunch of muddy, grossly damp leaves in the dark and in the freezing cold,”—Louis makes a disgruntled face as he wriggles amongst the leaves, a thick cloud of his breath above his face as he breathes out. Harry’s half-convinced if he looked long enough, he’d discover Louis’ breath was actually made of stardust—“or getting leaves stuck down me bum—” Harry frees a loud cackle from his throat. His eyes are probably glowing with glittery red hearts, “or anywhere else. Got that?” Harry nods, grinning wildly, matching Louis’. “And excuse you. I’m having a whale of a time.”

Harry smiles timidly down at him, lips pressed.

“Hey. I’ve got you, and you’ve got me. Yeah?” Louis says, nudging him. “Dream team?”

Harry nods again, slowly this time, smile smoothing out and face softening. “Always. You’ll never shake me. Stuck with me. That okay?”

Louis pretends to think, humming. “Mmm, yeah, I think it’s okay,” Louis sighs, feigning annoyance, before he winks at him.

“Good,” Harry grins.

“Come on.” Louis gets up, shaking off all the leaves and pulling a disgusted face. Harry laughs at him as he holds out his hands from where he still sits on the ground, making no move to get up.

“This was your idea, you ridiculous person.”

“Please, you love me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry agrees quietly.

Louis looks up then, eyes watching him with something Harry can’t quite identify. Then Louis’ lips twitch.

“Well, of course you do. How could you not? I’m the bestest.”

“That’s my line,” Harry pouts.

“Spent too much time around you.” Louis shivers.

“Cold?”

“Nah, just the thought of turning into a long-haired, floral obsessed pirate.”

“Hey!” Harry shoves his leg lightly, sending him off balance. Louis just grabs hold of his arm and hauls him up, tugging him closer. They giggle in each other’s space, starting to sway on the spot.

Their faces are almost touching as their bodies seem to gravitate toward each other, orbiting the other like the moon orbits the sun.

Because it’s true. Harry is the moon and Louis is his sun, addicted to his light, needing it, wanting it so much that he fears Louis would scorch him if he got too close.

Harry kind of doesn’t mind at all.

He feels drunk.

“You know, Liam thinks we made a pact,” Harry finds himself saying. And why is he saying this?

“What kind of pact?” Louis asks curiously.

“He reckons that if we’re both still single at twenty eight, then we’ll marry each other.”

Louis’ face splits into a broad grin, contagious enough that Harry mirrors it exactly. “Does he now?” he breathes. “Would that be when you’re twenty eight or when I am?”

“When you are,” Harry nods.

“Why?” Louis laughs.

“Because it’s closer.”

“Oh, I see," Louis grins, eyes sparkling. Harry can't look away. "That desperate, are you? Gonna marry me, Styles?”

“One hundred percent. I’ve already changed my bank details to H. E. Styles-Tomlinson.”

Louis giggles breathily. And maybe because Harry’s feeling a bit giddy thinking about being married to Louis, and braver at Louis' delighted reaction, that his mouth edges that much closer to Louis’, chapped and parted.

Harry wants to wet his lips, soothe them and taste them until his own lips are puffy and sore, teetering on the edge of the electrical current that's sizzling between them, even though it’s like the bloody Arctic out here.

He feels calm, content, so completely at ease with him.

Harry kind of wants to nuzzle their noses together, so he does.

“Did you just give me an Eskimo kiss?”

“I did.”

Louis hums, eyes crinkled as he beams up at Harry in his pink pom beanie. “You’re cute.”

“You’re the cutest.”

“I’m not the one with dimples.”

“Yes, you are. I gave you one. Right,” Harry gently pokes his finger in Louis’ cheek, just in the crease of his smile, “here.”

“You're so—” Louis trails into giggles, ducking his head into his neck.

Harry can’t stop grinning like an idiot. He feels like he’s smoked a ton of weed, he’s that giddy and delirious, practically floating on air. It’s like Louis is the most natural high and Harry doesn’t ever want to come down from the clouds.

“Incredible? Amazing? Charming? Stunningly handsome?” Harry lists theatrically, throwing his head back.

“Yes, all of the above, you humble thing, you.” He reaches for Harry’s face, thumbs gently stroking his freezing cheeks. Every motion of Louis’ fingertips leaves a trailing blaze of fire over his skin, then slowly they slide down to his neck, creating circles there, smile softening into a stiller expression, his gaze actually falling to Harry’s mouth.

Harry’s heart catches in his throat.

Is Louis going to kiss him? Or at least, is perhaps thinking about it? Is it actually going to happen?

Oh, please, all the gods.

Harry wants to kiss him. Needs to kiss him.

Harry has lost all sense of time, dizzy with it, eyes locked on Louis’ parted lips. He tentatively starts to lean in, any doubts he had about Louis have dissipated, fingers hovering over Louis’ jaw as Louis’ blue eyes stare unblinking, seemingly about to pull Harry to him by his coat collar, when his phone fucking buzzes.

It’s the loudest sound he’s ever heard.

“Just leave it,” Harry says abruptly. Louis doesn’t. He chuckles lightly and retrieves his phone from his jean pocket.

Harry wants to die, swallowing down a pathetic whimper.

“Oh,” Louis says flatly.

“What?”

“It’s Aiden.”

No.

“What does it say?” Harry asks casually. He’s anything but. His voice is wobbly, on the verge of screaming.

Harry nearly kissed Louis. Louis was possibly about to kiss  _him._  This can’t be happening. Not now. Fuck Aiden.

“He wants to meet up. Says he misses me.”

“No,” Harry says.

Louis’ head snaps up to meet his gaze, blinking owlishly. “What?” His voice is odd. Harry doesn’t want to say his tone is hopeful, because why would Louis be pleased Harry is acting like a child again?

But is it hopeful?

“Leave it. Don’t answer him. If you were what he wanted, then he should have bloody kept you, shouldn’t he?”

He sounds bitter, brittle.

Louis just stares.

Harry shrugs. “I’m sorry, but whether you dumped him, or he dumped you...well, he should have fought for you. How could anyone not fight for  _you_? How could anyone not want you?”

Louis continues to stare.

“What if he wants to make it up to me?” Louis asks, voice dazed, like he’s not really listening, but his voice carries anyway.

Harry exhales, breath clouding in front of him where he stands with Louis, still close and still desperate to close every inch of space that’s keeping them apart.

He wants to press his body to Louis’, mould and shape it to him entirely, learn all the ways his breath hitches, wants to know the sounds he makes when he’s at his most vulnerable, the rhythm of his heartbeat when they’re tangled up and moving in time, every part of their bodies touching, kissing every inch of his silky skin.

Suddenly, it all seems so far away again.

“I’d say it’s too late for that. Too bad. He had his chance,” Harry says. He reaches for Louis’ hand when he says nothing in reply and tugs him to him. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

Home. Their home.

Only, it doesn’t matter where they live.

Louis is Harry’s home regardless. Him. Louis. And he’s sure he’s Louis’, too.

“Yeah, okay,” Louis whispers, still just looking at him. Harry holds his hand the entire walk home and Louis doesn’t try to let go once.

**

"I genuinely would. I would genuinely put Liam's needs above my wet dream of getting to spend the day with Beckham, and I'm frankly offended you'd question my loyalty, Neil." Louis says as he pops his hip out, holding his cup of tea with delicate fingers, indignant eyebrows shooting a glare over at Niall, who’s lounging on the sofa in Harry and Louis' flat, hugging one of Harry's fluffy pillows to his chest.

"Please, you'd ditch Liam in a heartbeat before you let a chance to meet Beckham go."

“Excuse you. I’d take a bullet for Liam,” he squeaks, bending down and curling an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

“Thanks, man,” Liam smiles, cuddling into his side, gazing up at him. Liam's always looked up to him. They all have. Louis' the leader and they kind of just happily follow his way.

“Not a fatal blow, mind. Maybe just a slight arm graze—”

Liam's mouth drops open, offended, and removes himself from Louis’ side as Louis sniggers cutely into his teacup before he sets it down. “Oh, thanks,  _mate_ ,” Liam huffs.

“You’re very welcome, Liam,” Louis says, dripping with sarcasm.

Harry tries to stifle his laugh but Louis catches him looking, as he makes his way to his room, sending Harry a wink that wipes the grin off Harry’s face and has him shifting in his seat uncomfortably, a bit breathless, especially because Louis is looking extra beautiful and simultaneously hot today.

Or like, everyday.

Help him. Harry is suffering.

He notices it's gone strangely quiet and glances up to see both Niall and Liam staring at him.

“Oh, Harry, come on. Just tell him,” Niall pouts. “This can be my birthday present from you.”

“What?” Harry protests. “You birthday was nearly two months ago and I got you a present.”

“A blender, Harry?” Niall cocks his head, unimpressed. "I thought it was an IOU, to be honest."

“You ungrateful sod.” Harry crosses his arms and huffs. “Louis would have loved it. And even if he didn’t, he would have lied. Because that’s what—”

“Boyfriends do,” Niall finishes for him.

“Or husbands," Liam pipes up.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, to hurl a witty comeback but before any words can come to him, Louis is sitting down abruptly and immediately burrowing into Harry’s side, nuzzling his nose into his neck and inhaling his skin.

He’s going to faint while sitting down.

Harry pointedly ignores Niall’s smug look and slurps on his beer, switching the channel to ITV where some 'celebrity' appears to be gagging on some kind of green goo.

“What’s with the face?” Louis asks, poking a finger in the side of his cheek. 

“What?”

“The face? Frowny Mcfrownerson,” Louis says in a stupidly deep voice, imitating Harry’s expression. His stressed, slightly terrified expression, probably.

“Nothing,” he mutters.

“Oh, yeah, ‘nothing’,” Louis shoots back sarcastically. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Harry whines, shaking Louis off and having to pry his fingers from his waist as he tries to heave Harry back down. “Get off,” he pleads. “I want to get another drink."

“Oh, alright. I’ll get it. Another pretty pink homemade cocktail for the princess?” he grins, tucking a finger under Harry’s pouty chin.

“Yes, please,” Harry mumbles, still frowning.

“Coming right up,” Louis sings, darting away.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Harry. I’ll tell him if you won’t,” Liam says under his breath, getting up and Harry launches himself at him, clinging to his hips.

“Don’t you bloody dare, Liam James Payne!”

"What's all the ruckus?" Louis calls from the kitchen.

"Nothing, Liam just insulted my headscarf again," Harry lies. Liam makes an offended noise. 

Harry sits back down, refusing to speak for most of the night and wondering when exactly he _should_ say something. He can't live like this forever. He's going to have to let Louis know his real feelings eventually. 

Harry smiles when he finds Louis already looking at him, fingers tracing circles on his shoulder blade, seemingly lost in thought, and suddenly it doesn't feel that far-fetched that Louis could be experiencing the exact same dilemma as he is right now.

He hopes.

**

“I’m not jealous of him. There's nothing to be jealous of,” Harry grumbles for the third time, chin squashed against his chest as he clutches the pillow in a white knuckled grip, staring blankly at the TV. "He doesn't like him anymore."

Niall arches a pale eyebrow. “Sounds exactly like something someone jealous would say,” he mumbles, spraying crumbs across Harry’s black t-shirt.

“Are you done?” Harry sighs, clutching the pillow closer to his chest, cushioning his head on another that he shoves behind his headscarf clasped curls, absently registering the fact his phone might be buzzing in his back pocket, but too forlorn and sluggish to answer at this moment of terrible trepidation trudging through his veins, last night’s endless amount of vodka soda and limes clogging up his brain cells.

A constant mantra of  _Louis_ in his head is all he can think about. It can't be healthy, this. Yeah, Louis has taken up a sizable portion of his brain since he met him, but he's losing his appetite, he can't sleep, and there's this ache in his chest, like chronic pain or something. He can barely breathe properly. Maybe he should see a doctor. Checking his symptoms online just came up with worst case scenarios. 

"Be nice to me. I think I'm dying, Niall," he whimpers.

“That was just a warm up, mate. You need to say something to him. I mean it.” Niall stares at him, continuing to munch on his Doritos. The tangy, cheesy smell is actually making him feel ill. “Stop with all this bottling up stuff bullshit. Just  _talk_ , for Christ’s sake.”

“What?” Harry throws up a hand and smacks it down to the sofa cushion. “What am I supposed to say to him, Niall? ‘Oh, by the way, the reason I'm so weird about you seeing anyone is because I’m so fucking in love with you and I’m kicking myself for not realising sooner? So how about you don't date anyone else, and only date me forever?’”

Harry’s eyes widen, slapping an abrupt hand over his mouth.

“Yes!” Niall bellows, tipping his head back and laughing delightedly, taking his bowl of crisps with him and flinging them into the air, almost knocking the lime and teal vase his mum bought them and smashing it to pieces. "Don't say it quite like that, though. Tone back the hysterics a bit."

“You nearly broke that!" Harry shrieks, pointing beside him.

"I thought you hated it?" Niall says, eyeing it with furrowed brows.

"No, it's grown on me. Reminds me of Louis' eyes. Greeney blue," Harry mumbles, coyly turning his shoulders inwards. "Jesus, Niall. Look at the mess,” Harry scolds. 

“Fuck the mess! You need to tell Louis you love him before Louis starts going out with this other dude again, and then get married and have lots of kids and—”

He’s interrupted by the click of the door, and then Louis is standing in the doorway in his oversized denim jacket and white high tops, his fringe pushed to the side and dangling over his right eye, lips an alarming shade of red.

Blood rushes to Harry's face and down to his toes. Louis looks beautiful, like a timeless, smoke saturated, hazy daydream. Or wet dream.

“You’re gonna catch flies in that mouth,” Niall mutters very quietly, smirking. Harry pointedly closes it, clearing his throat.

Louis shuffles inside, kicking off his shoes in the corner and padding over in his Captain America socks, face pinched and despondent.

“Hey,” Harry blurts, face softening significantly. “What’s up?” he coos, his own brows pinched with concern as he holds out his arms for Louis to collapse into. Louis’ eyes flicker at the sound of his voice and he goes straight for him, hiding his face in his Harry’s warm neck, jacket still on and Harry wraps his arms around him in a secure embrace.

“Shit day,” Louis murmurs into his skin, his hot breath bringing his skin out in ripples of goosebumps. His hands clutch at Harry’s charcoal jumper draped shoulders. “It’s better now,” he says after a long moment.

Harry hums in sympathy, gripping onto him tighter and shifting him closer in his lap, unthinkingly nosing through the soft fudge tresses of his hair, letting his eyelids droop closed.

Louis stays in his arms, still and warm and steady, his heartbeat a constant rhythm pressed up against Harry’s own erratic pulse. He feels dizzy and anchored all at once, momentarily forgetting everything bar Louis’ sweet, faintly smoky scent, rudely awakened from his Louis stupor by Niall’s unceremonious yawn, who stands up and stretches his arms high above his head, back clicking unpleasantly and gives them both a long meaningful look.

Or Harry, rather, seeing as Louis’ face in still buried in the crook of his neck.

“I’m going then,” he says. “Got a thing to get to. See you later.” He ruffles Louis’ hair. “I’m gonna love you and leave you, Lewis.”

“See you, Neil,” Louis murmurs, shooting an arm out and blindly squeezing Niall’s hand who’s frowning at the name. He shoots one more knowing glance Harry’s way and then Niall is traipsing towards the door, shutting it gently behind him.

“Right,” Harry breathes, because if he doesn’t move now, he’ll be here with him all night and he really does need to pee now. “Do you want some dinner, love?”

Louis lifts his head up, eyes sleepy and calm as he stares at Harry softly, eyes dripping with affection for a long moment. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. “What would I do without you?”

Harry releases a startled laugh. “Be living in squalor and eating dry coco pops out of the box in underwear you’ve worn three days in a row probably,” he says, smile silly and endeared. “And so bored that you’d resort to aggressively masturbating at all hours of the day.”

Louis bursts into surprised cackles, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open wide. Harry clasps his thighs, grinning madly up at him. “Cheeky boy.”

A little while later and Harry’s in the kitchen, cooking a prawn stir-fry when Louis comes up behind him and rests his chin over Harry’s shoulder, hands encircling his waist.

“That smells nice,” Louis murmurs, except his face is practically buried in Harry’s hair.

“The stir-fry, or me?”

“Both.”

Both, he says. Right. Because commenting on your best platonic friend’s smell all the time and how much you love it is normal, right? Right...

“Louis?”

“Harry?”

He chuckles airily, giving the pan one last shake before he turns off the gas, and fetches a couple of plates for serving. Louis is still loosely gripping the hem of Harry’s jumper, following his movements.

“Are you going to let me go?” Harry says, amused.

“Nope.” He lets go enough to allow Harry to face him, walking over to the cooker to halve the stir-fry onto the plates and making sure he gives Louis extra prawns, remembering he had something more to say.

He sighs, as he watches Louis heave himself up on the stool at the kitchen worktop, and delivers his dinner in front of him. “Thanks, babe.”

Harry joins him with his plate, and starts to swirl the noodles on his fork, thinking about how best to ask Louis about the nature of their friendship without turning it into a  _thing._  The last time he tried to bring up their sleeping arrangements, Louis almost had a meltdown.

“Um, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” Louis mumbles, a bit of spinach hanging from the corner of his mouth. Harry smiles fondly, instinctively reaching out, not missing the way Louis almost flinches. Harry’s smile slips briefly into a small frown.

“You’ve got something...” Harry says, using his thumb to swipe it away and gently rubbing over Louis’ grease slick bottom lip, all while Louis gazes back at him with curious eyes, intent on Harry’s every movement. “There. Gone.”

Louis’ silent for a few more seconds, just staring. Then he abruptly clears his throat. “Um, thanks.”

Harry gives him a warm smile. “So, um, that thing I wanted to talk about?” Harry continues to swirl his noodles, settling on a prawn and pops it into his mouth, feeling Louis’ eyes on him, dragging the moment out.

“Spit it out.”

“The prawn?”

“No, whatever you’re dying to say. Come on, get it over with,” Louis says, tone a little snippy.

“Alright,” Harry grumbles. “So... _us_.” Maybe that wasn’t the best way to start this, judging by Louis’ face, which has gone still and impassive. Harry swallows the prawn and refuses to look at him, focusing on his food.

“Us?” Louis says blankly.

Harry exhales and looks back up. “Louis, do you think we’re a bit too close? For like... friends.”

There. He’s said it. 

"What do you mean?" Louis says hesitantly, a look of mild terror on his face.

Harry’s brows pull together, shoving a larger than necessary portion of noodles in his mouth.

“Have you been listening to Liam? Has he been saying he thinks we’re too close?”

“No? I’ve been saying it.”

Louis’ mouth quirks, humourless. “I see.”

"Don't get moody with me, I'm just trying to—"

"Trying to what?" Louis says, face grim.

“Look, Lou. We sleep in the same bed cuddling more often than not and—"

"What's wrong with that?" Louis protests. "Are you saying I'm a shit cuddler?"

"No, you idiot. But do you think friends sleep in the same bed together every night?"

"It's not unheard of," Louis insists, voice getting extremely high pitched.

"They spoon as well, do they?"

"Well," Louis shrugs. "Some...probably?" Louis' glaring now, brows knitted tightly as he stares at his plate intently.

"We joke about wanking each other off! We’re always flirting and overly touchy when we’re drunk, we do that when we're not even! We basically act like a married couple in every other way. You say your favourite thing about me is the way I _smell_ , Louis. And we’re still supposed to be just friends? It's not normal,” he says quietly.

“I don't—" Louis sighs, frustrated, face falling. "Okay, so what? Are you saying you want space from me? Because you could have bloody said so earlier, you know? Before we moved in together!” 

“No! I don’t want space. That’s not what I want. I don’t want that at all, Lou.”  _I want you. Only ever want you._

“But other people...they do some of that stuff, right? And they’re just friends?” Louis offers feebly. It’s clearly unconvincing to both of their ears.

“Not exactly,” Harry whispers. "Look, I'm just saying..."

Say it. Why can't he say it? 

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, and Harry wishes he’d never said anything. Wishes he could say what's actually on his mind and hope Louis feels the same.

It’s there on the tip of his tongue.

He’s so frustrated with himself.

“Well, if you wanted to take me out on a date, I’m afraid you’re a bit late." Harry snaps his head up at the implication. "I’ve already got one lined up for Friday night," Louis says offhandedly.

Harry blinks.

“What?” Harry barely gets out. "With who?" Fuck. Not...

"You know who. We should make it a double date. Aiden's got this friend... Tom."

"You don't like him, though. Why are you going out with him again?" Harry says, voice deep and sullen.

Louis doesn't answer. "You’ve not been with anyone in ages, Haz. We’ve got to get you back out there. We both should.” His voice is odd again. Not soft like it was last night, but...there’s an edge to it. Sort of...bitter? Irritated.

Harry frowns. “Fine.”

“Huh?” Louis says, surprised.

“I’ll go. What’s he like? Do you think we’ll get on?” Harry says lightly.

“You actually want to go?”

“You don’t want me to?”

“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t think you’d actually want to come.”

“Yeah, well, you asked. And like you said, it’s time for me to live a little,” Harry smiles tightly, sadistically enjoying the scowl that’s almost forming on Louis’ agape face.

Yes. Harry feels very satisfied, thank you.

It’s Louis’ turn to get jealous. Harry’s had enough of that game.

**

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Harry exhales, cigarette cushioned between his lips as he sends a text to Louis to say he’s on his way. “Where did these come from?” They were probably Louis’, and Harry had to tell his brain to shut up when it wished he was suckling on a tip that had been moistened by Louis’ mouth. He was going insane.

“Neither can I,” Niall says, arms folded, studying Harry closely. He’s been looking at him weirdly for the past hour. “Where is Louis, anyway?”

“He already left.”

“Oh,” Niall frowns.

“I haven’t really seen him much,” Harry says miserably. God, knows how tonight is going to go. He’s fully expecting Louis to still be in a mood, though it’s never lasted this long before.

Not that they even had a fight, but Louis’ distant in subtle ways and Harry hates that he notices the little things. Those small cues that are missing from the daily routine that most people wouldn’t even realise. But he’s in love with him, so isn’t not really that surprising.

They’re leaning against the ledge of the balcony of the flat, Harry having one last smoke before he leaves to join Louis, already at the restaurant according to the short text he sent earlier. He barely smokes, but when he does, it’s in immense times of stress and this is most definitely a horribly stressful time.

Because Harry is going on a date and his date is not the love of his life, but some random stranger who has apparently seen the first Star Wars movie a hundred and twelve times.

He should have just said no, but he didn't want Louis to think Harry can't pull anyone these days. And maybe he wants him to be a bit jealous for once. Like, he used to be. Harry realises he sounds like a sicko for wanting Louis to get jealous so badly, but Harry's not denying it. His stomach twists when he thinks about having to watch Louis be with someone else, laugh and joke and caress and touch, while Harry will be sitting like an awkward mute next to a guy he has no interest in even being friendly with, let alone be on a date with.

Louis will be directly in front of him and every cell in his body will be screaming for his attention.

He just hopes it goes by as quickly and as painlessly as possible. And maybe make Louis a little jealous wouldn’t go a miss. And if he is? Well, maybe there’s hope?

“Well, you’re a braver man than I am.”

“That doesn’t make me feel much better, but thank you for the sentiment, Niall,” he says, smile small but pulling his lips upwards anyways.

Niall gives him a quick hug and pat on the back and sends him off with another spritz of aftershave, giving him one last bit of advice. “I say flirt with this guy like hell and make our boy jealous as hell.” Niall winks and sends him on his way.

It’s not a bad idea.

As soon as Harry arrives, he braces his face for a heavy dose of aching all night. Reluctantly, he forces his feet over the scarlet carpet and through the immaculately cleaned glass doors, he feels under dressed. He has a nice floral shirt on but the place is quite  _posh_ ; a contemporary interior is decorated in a soft peach hue, weirdly shaped candles on every table which are a dark claret colour and everything is so pristine.

It’s not Louis. It’s not Harry, either. Harry screws up his face in distaste at the stuffiness, and pretentiousness going on around the room.

He’d rather be at some bar that plays live music in the city, one that’s a tad grubby, a bit dirty, but one that has life to it and a colourful history and a hipsterish aesthetic™ that Louis would mildly tease him about, but secretly love it just as much. Lean into him as they bop lamely to the band playing, bodies pressed closely together, sweaty foreheads glistening in the neon glow of the sweltering lights, and walk home with a greasy bag of chips drowning in ketchup and vinegar because Louis hates dry chips. (Hopefully the food here isn’t inedible. These places focus on decoration only and you get what looks like a lavish snack made for a royal rabbit.)

Harry sees them (unfortunately) in the middle of the restaurant—Aiden in a black button down, his fucking blonde swirl taunting him as he laughs manically, rather loudly too (knob), and sitting opposite  who he assumes is his date, Tom, looking very friendly and flirtatious with Aiden, actually. Harry tries not to scowl. It’s giving him a migraine.

Tom doesn’t look like he expected. He looks like he’s from Chelsea, expensive and groomed, floppy blonde hair dipped in too much wax based hair products, his muted shirt and jacket ensemble artfully dishevelled like he thinks he’s Robert fucking Pattinson in 2008 or something.

And then there’s Louis.

He's beautiful in his suede boots and grey shirt with a black demin Lee jacket over it.

His heart does a little skip, their eyes meeting instantly as Louis sits down and stand up again, smile soft and warm and stirring butterflies inside Harry’s stomach, as well as a still calm that immediately makes him feel more comfortable and relaxed, like Louis’ smile is a balm to Harry’s innards and cells. It’s like Louis is a magnet and Harry is pulled firmly towards him, however bumpy and chaotic it is to get to him.

“Hi,” Louis says, seeming much happier and looking like human art. He instantly grabs Harry for a hug and cushions his cheek against his.

“Alright?” Harry murmurs, but before Louis answers, Aiden butts in and Harry has to bite his cheek to stop a petty word slipping out. 

“Harry, good to see you again, and a little more sober,” he smirks. Harry shakes his hand this time, and grins falsely.

"Yeah, sorry for last time. Alcohol can make me quite stroppy." 

"Just a bit," he replies, snaking his hand around Louis' hip. Tom stands then, smiling enthusiastically but all Harry can do is stare at Louis.

He needs to get his flirt on, at least try and talk the guy. Damn it. This is already a waste of time.

**

Forty-five minutes later and their food has arrived—also after forty-five minutes of mindless chat (where Aiden and Tom seemed to be the only ones engrossed in conversation), awkward silences, and two instances in which Harry nearly knocked over his glass when Louis’ ankle decided to hook around his. Louis barely speaks to Aiden. Harry can count the number of times he's actually acknowledged him so far on one hand. 

It’s left Harry feeling even more confused, but relieved that Louis seems to only want to study Harry's face like he can't tear his eyes away.

Is Louis almost playing fucking footsie under the table with him because he’s trying to calm him down? Because he can see how much Harry is not enjoying this? Maybe he regrets challenging to come. This was a stupid idea anyway. There's more action going on between their dates, which is curious, and Harry feels weirdly suspicious, as though he's missing something. 

Can Harry dare hope it’s because Louis is feeling some of the things Harry is feeling at last?

Tom has been nice, much to Harry’s pleasant surprise. And nice is usually fine. Harry likes nice. Louis is nice. But Tom’s version of nice isn’t the same as Louis’ version of nice. It less nicer. It’s nice, but not _nice_.

Harry’s lost it.

He pours himself a second glass of red.

**

Fortunately, it’s not too long before the date’s coming to an end but out of nowhere, Tom pulls Harry to the side and gives him a wide smile. Harry freezes, aware of Louis’ eyes on them.

"I don't suppose you fancy hitting a bar in the city, or something?" Tom says suddenly.

"Like, all of us?" Harry asks, as he pushes his chair in, a bit surprised seeing as they've barely spoken throughout dinner.

"I was thinking more just you and me?" Tom says, tone hopeful.

"Oh," Harry blinks, taken aback, sees in the corner of his eye Louis stilling.

He could. He should. Maybe to test and see if he's still as crazy for Louis after he's got some pent up sexual frustration rid of. Not that he's hoping or  even planning to sleep with Tom. Especially not on a first date. But some flirting wouldn't hurt. Something that takes Louis off his mind for five minutes at least.

So he's says yes, pointedly not looking at Louis' reaction. Aiden seems to be pretty tuned in to Tom, though. He's staring awfully intently at him. Creep.

"Yeah, sure. Let's."

"Now?" Tom grins, seeming pleased.

"Yeah, why not?" 

"Great." Tom's hand goes to the small of Harry's back and his heart feels heavy as gives Louis a short wave, and a, "I'll text you later."

Louis doesn't say anything, only nods, and turns back to Aiden, brows furrowed as he whispers something in his ear.

Harry tries not to look back.

**

The second part of his date with Tom is a disaster. And he just wants to leave. Preferably now. 

He's also catastrophically drunk for his usual standards, and Tom really looks pissed off, and like he'd rather be literally anywhere else but standing at a bar with an almost weeping Harry, who can't stop rambling on and on about Louis. Harry doesn’t blame him in the slightest. But Tom's been on his phone, messaging for the last hour, anyway.

So, that's why Harry is currently standing on wobbly legs, a hand braced on the wall outside the bar’s toilets, blurry images of faces scattered around him, his own phone in his hand.

Leaving a voicemail message for Louis.

He's been babbling about old times, about the nights they spent in Louis' dorm room getting high, about the first time Harry saw him, about how much he constantly wanted his attention, and how he missed him after a only couple of hours, how he still does.

He rushes through the most unguarded, embarrassing, soppy, unabashed things without a care in the world because a huge amount of alcohol is pumping through his veins.

He says he wants them to get a cat so it can be their baby. 

How he loves the way his voice sounds when he sings in the shower like no one's listening.

How he thinks he's literally made from stardust and that Harry is probably the other half of the star they were made from.

"I just love you so much, Lou, you know? You're, like," he sniffs wetly, "my person, you know? My one and only. And I guess, if I really have to, I'll get over you. Because you're my friend first, and you obviously would have said something by now if that wasn't true...if I was  _more._ That's why I'm getting over you, or at least I'll try my hardest to. Because I can't keep pining after you and hoping you'll turn around and tell me you're in love with me one day. But, I am. I will. I'm getting over you," Harry slurs, forlorn and a mess, basically.

He’s just emptying his thoughts out loud.

He's not actually going to send this.

This isn’t how he’s going to lay his soul bare to Louis.

He’s going to hang up mid-way.

Except he doesn't.

The beep ends, and the operator's automatic voice thanks Harry for leaving his message.

Harry's so out of it, he doesn't even register it, ends up being pushed into a cab by Tom and falls asleep on the ride home.

**

Harry pouts at the door as though it’s personally offended his baking skills, fumbling with the keys and poking it in the lock, getting steadily more frustrated with every passing second, jamming it in and twisting it before he’s suddenly flying forwards, toppling onto the hard floor in a crumpled heap at Louis’ feet, which are clad in rainbow striped socks.

Disorientated and feeling like his head is violently sloshing through choppy waters, Harry immediately wraps his hands around Louis’ ankles for something steady to hold onto in his time of pathetic distress and buries his face in the crook of his elbow, whimpering like a smashed idiot who’s desperately, achingly in love with his best friend.

Harry hates his life. But he has Louis, so he should thank his lucky stars, even if feels like using them to repeatedly poke himself in the eye with.

“Had an eventful night then, did we?”

Said best friend frowns down at him when Harry risks a bleary glance upwards, plastering on a smile that probably appears more of a grimace. “Greetings and salutations,” he slurs. He was watching  _Heathers_  last night with Niall for some reason. Niall said it was passable for a Halloween movie so Harry went with it, pointedly blocking out Louis on the phone in the other room incase he picked up a single word he wouldn’t want to hear.

“You’re drunk,” Louis states flatly, as he bends down and tries to lift Harry’s dead weight.

“No, I’m not.” It’s a weak protest since it’s clear as day. Harry swats at his hands and refuses to let go of Louis’ legs, making childish noises that he’s not proud of but he’s sad and in love, and he’s very drunk and very upset.

Can’t Harry have a free pass to act like a complete tit this one time? (Alright, so for maybe like, the tenth time.)

But he needs sympathy, alright? Niall sure as hell wasn’t giving him any. He knew he should have gone to Liam. Liam’s nice. Liam’s lovely. Liam would have been nice to him.

(Bad Niall.)

(Forcing Harry to confront his feelings like this.)

(That fake blonde is a monster.)

(How could he do this to him?)

“Right, come on, you,” Louis sighs, attempting to lift him once more. “Get up. Bed.”

Harry grunts. “I’m not a child.”

“Stop acting like one then,” Louis sings, amusement pulling the corners of his mouth even though Harry knows he’s trying hard not to smile.

Louis drags him inside by his legs towards his room, Harry still refusing to move by himself.

“Get up, Harry,” Louis repeats, huffing.

He grunts again.

“Harry.” There’s a warning edge to Louis’ voice now that Harry doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of, especially not tonight, so reluctantly, he heaves himself up to stand on his clumsy limbs and stalks to his bedroom, collapsing onto the bed, coat still on and boots wet from the drizzle outside.

Louis comes in and sets a glass of water by his bed, and begins to pull off his boots with a great amount of effort.

“Bloody hell, Harry, are these things glued to your damn feet?”

Harry twists his body and lands on his back, chin tucked to his chest as he watches Louis finally get his boots removed, glancing up at Harry through his eyelashes, cheeks twitching with amusement. Harry’s own lips can’t help but quirk in the corners too as Louis climbs up the bed and tugs Harry’s coat off, unbuttoning his shirt and chucking a t-shirt in his face.

Louis sighs, distracted by a buzz in his pocket, brows pinching together briefly. “Oh. I have a voicemail,” he says, wandering into the kitchen, Harry’s eyes falling closed.

Voicemail.

Harry’s eyes fly open.

Fuck. His voicemail. The one Harry left for him earlier tonight. Drunk and rambling and confessing his fucking love. Oh, Jesus.  _No._

Harry jumps off the bed like’s been electrocuted and slides on his socks on the floor to try to snatch the phone out of Louis’ hands, who’s currently holding a finger up to silence him as he holds the phone to his ear. “It’s from you,” he smiles, surprised.

“Hang up, it's nothing,” Harry instructs, voice low, suddenly stark sober.

Louis just listens, sending smirks Harry’s way. “You’re talking gibberish,” he giggles. “You sound so pissed. You're slurring, big time.”

“Hang up now. Louis, please, just hang up! Louis!” he begs, grabbing and swatting for the phone as Louis grins devilishly and darts around the worktop to get away from him, like it’s a bloody game and Harry’s chasing Louis round the kitchen island like they’re fucking ten. “Louis, give me the phone! Louis, give me the phone now!” Louis skittles around, giggling like a hyena child, Harry scrambling around the flat after him like a madman.

This is a fucking nightmare. Wake him up, slap him. He can’t hear that message. 

Louis continues to listen to Harry’s previous drunken breakdown, still smiling, thoroughly entertained by Harry’s nonsensical rambling when his face starts to minutely change, twitching subtly and then it starts to fall completely, eyes widening.

Oh, no.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, hands shakily raking through his hair, stuck to the floor, frozen in horror and Louis reaches the end of the voicemail and holds the phone limply in his hand.

Louis pales. He stares at Harry.

“You’re getting over me?”

“Louis...”

“What are you on about?” he laughs nervously, bemused. “What do you mean ‘you’re getting over me’?” He stares at Harry with perplexed eyes, tinges of hurt and confusion smudged around the edges, in the corners. “When the hell were you even  _on_  me?”

Oh, god.

“Well, um. I... I’ve... sort of...” he trails off, voice getting quieter.

All Harry can do is stare at Louis as Louis stares back with that same look of stunned terror in his eyes.

Fuck, he’s ruined  _everything_.

“I’ve got feelings for you,” he barely whispers. Harry stands there, gripping onto his hair with no idea where to look. He can’t look at him, refuses to.

“Feelings?” Louis blinks, voice hoarse.

Harry bites his lip hard, nodding, eyes cast downwards again, like he’s admitting to something terrible. But how can loving Louis be terrible? It’s not. He loves him even if Louis won’t love him the same way.

Harry's just about to profess his love and come clean when he coughs, suddenly feeling really quite queasy. 

"Harry?" Louis questions.

"I'm gonna be sick," he announces and dashes to the bathroom, absently aware of Louis' footsteps behind him, immediately holding back Harry's hair as he throws up in the toilet.

**

After rehearsing his speech in his head all evening the next day, while wolfing down a whole box of cornflakes, and maybe crying a little bit as he tried to hug that damn cat, Harry’s now stretched out quietly on the sofa, legs curled to his chest as he drifts in and out of sleep, beanie clad head resting on a pillow. He feels a puff of air tickle his nose and slowly opens his eyes, heart instantly stuck in his throat.

“Hey, you.”

Louis’ crouched in front of Harry, cheeks pink from the cold, observing him closely. He looks like a soft, windswept hedgehog. 

“How long have you been there watching me like a creep?” Harry says dazedly on a yawn.

“Not long.” Louis puts a hand on his shoulder. “Scoot up then.”

Harry shifts to accommodate him, letting Louis press his back to his chest and sneaks his arms around Louis’ waist, tucking his face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He smells of dewy autumn air and faded cologne, one he bought him last Christmas.

He smells like home.

“You’re back early,” Harry murmurs, nose planted in the ends of Louis’ hair.

“Waiting up for me, were you?”

“No,” Harry lies. “Just fell asleep here. But I did want to talk about last night..." He feels his cheeks flush. He hasn't seen Louis all day, since he's been at work. Now he supposes he best bite the bullet. Surely, Louis wants to know what the voicemail was about?

Everything is a mess.

"Oh, um. I wanted to talk to you, too."

"Can I go first?"

"Well, um. I kind of have a confession to make?" Louis grimaces, tone hesitant, and he bites his lip in that nervous, restless way that he does.

"Okay?" Harry says slowly, brows furrowing slightly.

“Do you remember much of last night?” Louis starts. Something on Harry’s face must startle him though because then he says abruptly, "Actually, I'll tell you later.”

"Oh, alright."

Louis' hand comes up to rest atop Harry’s, staying still for all of ten seconds before he’s getting up again and making a beeline for the little bottle of pale blue nail polish on the coffee table. He dangles it in Harry’s questioning face and grabs his hand with a crease between his brows, settling on the edge of the sofa and pulling Harry’s hand into his lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Painting your nails. What does it look like?” His frown smooths out into a smirk.

“Mind the edges,” is all Harry says, smiling softly as Louis carefully brushes the first layer over his thumb, Louis’ fingertips holding him still. “Your mum called earlier, by the way.” Louis whips his head to look at Harry, almost flinging the brush across the room and smudging his careful work.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything about your love life.”

Louis relaxes instantly, smiling but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he takes Harry’s hand back and gently continues to apply a coat to his index finger. “What did she say?”

“She wants you to call her back, that she wishes I was hers instead of you,” Harry grins.

“Shut up, you,” he grimaces. “That’s just...weird.”

“Us being brothers?” Harry asks, trying to sound neutral and not like he’s been given a ray of hope. 

Louis smiles but it’s still twisted up, amused but also seemingly grossed out. Thank god. If Louis called him a little brother or something Harry would probably be sick.

Harry grins wider, watches with rapt attention as Louis’ brows stay concentrated on painting his nails as neatly as possible, obviously taking Harry’s instruction of ‘mind the edges’ very seriously.

Harry smiles at him. Louis looking at his nails. Harry looking at Louis. "I thought we could have another party?" he says to change the subject more than anything.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, a Halloween party."

Louis chuckles, eyes fixed to Harry's ring finger. 

"Leave that one." Harry shivers when Louis' pinky brushes lightly against his wrist. It's just an accidental touch, but Harry's heart is hammering behind his ribcage.

"Why?" 

"Because."

A smirk appears on Louis' quirked lips. "Hm. I see. Quirky."

He doesn't see, but Harry's glad about that fact. For now, at least. He doesn't need to give him a mini heart attack by announcing he'd like to pretend he's taken, attached, off the market.

By  _him_.

No, he'll leave that conversation for another time. Another time when Harry is confident his heart won't burst out of his chest before he can tell him the real reason he's been acting like such a weirdo lately.

But still, it's there, pressing on his innards and sitting inside his brain.

It's there when he wakes up in the morning and Louis rubs his sleepy eyes with his sweater paws, soft and lovely.

It's there when Louis steals his tea right out of hand and drains half the mug.

It's there when Louis can't reach the top cupboard in the kitchen and huffs when Harry easily retrieves the cereal for him.

And it's there when Louis gets all coy anyway and says "thanks, babe."

A swell of emotion shivers through him and his eyes are wet as he watches Louis, just looks at him, always looking. He bites his lip to stop himself, sniffing a bit too loudly because is snapping his head up, smile sliding off his face. "What's wrong?"

Harry manages a smile, shrugging. "Hay fever." 

"I don't think that stretches past the summer months, does it?" Louis smirks. "Maybe we need to do some dusting or something. You and your allergies, babe."

There's a stretch of quiet.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"When people keep saying they're fine, they're usually really not," Louis frowns, finishing the last nail, bending forwards to retrieve the lid for the bottle. His t-shirt rucks up, revealing the tanned skin of his smooth back. Harry bites his lip again, itching to reach out and stroke the skin there, or press his face into and inhale. Whichever option is less needy.

"I am," Harry insists, "Now shush and cuddle me. I'm cold," he pouts. Luckily, Louis doesn't press Harry further, just shuffles next to him comfortably and switches the channel, careful of Harry's drying nails.

They end up watching Bake Off, and munching on a nutritious meal of popcorn and biscuits.

“You know, it’s hard to believe this is our biggest show. It’s the biggest show in the country, Harry. This is what we have to offer. Scones and pastries. I’m not knocking it,” Louis says, holding up his hands when Harry raises an amused eyebrow. “But here, you’ve got someone crying over a jam tart that’s not cooking through properly and another who’s forgot to turn the bleeding oven on. Just... wow. This is what makes Britain great, you know?” Louis rambles, Harry struggling to control his face, breathy chuckles still managing to escape.

Louis looks at him, grinning when he sees Harry beaming as he watches him stuff a handful of Maltesers in his mouth. “What?” he smirks. “I’m telling it how it is, Haz.”

Harry continues to beam at him, snuggling into his side, Louis legs resting over Harry’s lap, his hand gripping his bare ankle.

“What’s got you in a soppy mood, eh? Cake makes you emotional as well, does it?”

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you, that’s all.”

There. Raw honesty. At least that’s the truth. He hugs Louis’ legs tighter, flopping his head into his lap, curls everywhere and beanie askew.

Louis makes a fond, embarrassed noise. His eyes are glossy and oozing affection that spills over Harry in waves. “And me. I’m so lucky to have you too, Harry,” he says quietly.

**

Harry has gone all out.

Decorating the flat was a much needed distraction from that soft, tiny pixie boy he’s miserably head over arse and heels for. Quite literally.

He tripped over thin air when Louis suddenly appeared in the kitchen earlier, greeting Harry with a firmer hug than usual—and that’s saying something, seeing as their hugs are usually all-encompassing anyway, as though they’ve not seen each other in months, even if it was only this morning they last saw each other.

And so everything looks scary and morbid and the whole flat apart from their bedrooms and the bathroom is decorated in a pallet of orange, red, purple, black and green. Streamers and cobwebs are scattered and strewn about in every corner, and most of the available surfaces that aren’t otherwise presenting big bowls of red punch, and apple cider, and mull wine, or filled with glasses or housing carved pumpkins. (Harry’s quite the carver, if he does say so himself. Louis’ was merely the smallest smiley face in the middle. Pitiful. He’s amazing.)

Fake spiders and whatnot are also hidden in unsuspecting seating areas and Harry’s even got a bowl of bobbing apples floating atop the kitchen counter.

It actually might be a bit crammed and overdone and way too extravagant but whatever. Harry was suffering. He needed this, okay?

Louis walks in then, dressed in a pastel blue t-shirt, and tight jeggings, hair purposefully messy and styled, eyes meeting Harry’s instantly, paired with a beaming smile.

“You look nice,” Harry tells him immediately.

“Thank you,” Louis laughs, if a little perplexed. “But I’m not dressed special or nought?” he smiles.

“Still,” he shrugs. "You always look nice."

Louis stares at him, almost bashful. Harry wishes he could walk up to me and just simply press his lips to his. “Well. Should manage to pull tonight, then, eh?” he winks and begins to inspect Harry’s artful displays while Harry's heart shrivels up and dies inside. Huh? Does that mean Aiden is out of the picture again? Oh, please. He decides not to press it. He'll ask later.

Harry might even tell him how he feels, once and for all.

“This is so sick! I can’t believe you did all this! It's amazing, Haz. I would have helped, though. You should have called me.”

"It's fine. It was therapeutic in a weird way."

Louis turns around, a small crease between his brows. "Why? What's the matter?"

God, what isn't the matter?

“Guess I've been feeling a bit worn out, that's all. Work's been a lot," he lies. 

"Oh," Louis frowns, and then he's in front of Harry, pulling him in my the neck and wrapping his arms around him. Harry buries his face in his neck and breathes him in, his smell instantly calming him down, chest loosening. "Okay?"

Harry hums. "Mm, yeah. You give the best hugs."

"Well, you're very cuddly so it's not hard," Louis says, voice muffled in Harry's shoulder. He finally pulls away, eyes connecting with Harry's as he keeps his hands resting on his chest. "You talk to me about anything, you know," he says, tone serious and concerned. "If you want to cut back your hours, I can take more on at the office instead of mostly working from home?"

"No, don't be silly. I can handle work. You know I love it, anyway. M' just a bit tired." Exhausted over the constant ache in his body for Louis. 

"We'll have a good night, yeah? Not too full on. Have some fun and then we'll snuggle up in bed after," Louis smiles, warm and luminous. Harry knows how much Louis loves him. He just wishes he knew if that love could be something more.

Harry just nods, let's Louis kiss him on the cheek and has to stop him from carving a pumpkin, lest he slice his hand open like last year.

**

Louis has been jumpy and clingy all evening. Much clingier than usual, which is saying something when they have little to no boundaries, anyway. But considering things have been weird between them recently, for obvious reasons, it’s a little odd.

Not that Harry’s complaining when Louis’ pretty much glued himself to his hand. He wanted to talk to him about it earlier, but Louis ended up dragging him over to the glowing purple punch on the kitchen worktop and they guzzled a glass or two of those, Louis fast becoming tipsy and flirtatious. And not just with Harry. It's making Harry grip his hand all the tighter, but Louis' holding his hand, not theirs, so it's all good.

They've moved onto the jelly shots Harry made earlier, pleasantly buzzed with an affectionate, tipsy Louis stuck to his side, his playlist of Halloween hits making the flat shake, and his decorations have gone down a storm, everyone dressed in their spooky garb as Harry instructed, or they wouldn’t be allowed in, thank you.

Liam and Sophia look amazing in their Gomez and Morticia Addams costumes, but of course Niall took no notice and came dressed as Tom Cruise form _Top Gun_. There’s plenty of witches about, though, and some zombies and Harry’s dressed as a Victorian-style vampire, pale make up on and red rimmed eyes.

And Louis?

He’s a cat.

The most gorgeous cat there ever was. He’s got a stuck on tail and cute drawn on whiskers and ears poking from his fluffy hair.

And now he's let go of Harry's hand, pouring out the punch into glasses from the cauldron on the worktop.

With a guy Harry's never seen before. Harry pouts, but tries to let it bother him, hand empty.

Twenty minutes later, though, and Harry's back to feeling utterly shit. He wants to snap every record in half that sings about (probably) unrequited love like it’s this romantic, beautiful, tragically poetic thing.

Because it’s not fucking beautiful when Harry is a sweaty, inebriated, crying mess and snotting all over the place as he goes from Liam’s lap to Niall’s shoulder, not knowing what to do with himself as some guy sticks his tongue down Louis’ throat in the corner of their flat, while his lovely bum is being kneaded by hands that don’t belong to Harry.

“What the fuck did I throw this party for?” Harry sobs, breath hitching as he struggles to stop his tears. "I was going to try and tell him how I feel tonight. Looks like that idea is dead."

Liam hugs him tight as Perrie strokes his hair and his hand is being held by Niall. He loves his friends. Good eggs, they are.

“Want another drink, babes?” Perrie asks, giving him her vodka tonic. Harry takes it and downs it. “Well, then. I’ll get you another, shall I?”

"No, get him some water," Niall says. He can be responsible when he wants to be. Bless him.

Harry’s poor, tormented heart is regretting ever having put on this fucking Halloween party. “This was supposed to be my chance to woo him and look at the shit over there!” he cries.

“Oh, Harry, mate,” Liam says sadly, lips pulled into an equally as sad pout. 

"Aww, Liam. You’re like a puppy, aren’t you?” Harry sniffles, cuddling into him. Liam starts giggling. Harry whacks him.

“I was being nice, dickhead.”

“And you’re really quite drunk, sweetheart.” Liam presses his face to his. He hands him some water that Niall brings over, who pats Harry on the head.

“Hey, Hazza. That guy’s gone.” Niall points out Louis. The guy indeed seems to have disappeared now, and Louis looks stormy, face pulled into a deep frown as he marches over to where Harry sits on Liam's lap limply.

"What's wrong?" Louis says, voice soft, instantly holding his arms out for Harry. He hastily wipes at his eyes, and tries desperately to compose himself, risking another glance Louis' way. 

"Harry's not feeling well," Liam says, helping Harry up who finds Louis' hand instantly. Louis brushes Harry's hair out of his face, but if he notices he's been crying, he doesn't say anything, just squeezes his hand.

"Okay, come on, you. Let's get away for a bit, yeah?" Louis says just to Harry, thumb stroking the back of Harry's hand, and takes a bottle of something with him as Harry follows Louis' lead.

Louis opens the door to Harry's bedroom, tugging him inside as Louis sits cross-legged on the bed, Harry mirroring his position. Louis leaps forwards and pulls Harry into an encompassing hug, hands rubbing soothing circles into his back. "Are you okay?" Louis whispers. Harry doesn't know where to begin with that question so he just nods and lets Louis distract him with his silly voices, and a bottle of tequila. 

**

An hour later and Louis has Harry in fits of giggles, his sadness forgotten and instead having fun with his best friend.

Except Harry’s wide set grin abruptly falls from his sticky, make-up clad cheeks, the white paint he dabbed on smudged and trickling down his hair line as he stares at a laid out Louis, who's playing with the cat that’s wandered in again, before it’s primly whacking Louis in the face and crawling back off the bed, comically almost shutting the door after itself as if it owns the place.

He absently registers Louis rambling as he rolls onto his stomach, sinking into the pile of everyone’s coats dumped on top of it, but Harry can’t open his mouth to form words, because all he can focus on is the glorious, golden dip of Louis’ back, heart-rate sky rocketing, and the room suddenly feels so fucking stuffy and Louis’ sinful back dimples are taunting Harry, and he  _can’t stop staring._

He’s practically salivating, every fibre of his overheated body tingling with the overwhelming urge to just  _lick_  and _suck_  and press kiss after kiss to Louis’ silky, flawless skin for hours.

Harry should be receiving a medal for his self-restraint at this point. He bends down to undo the buckles on his boots and kicks them off. Then shrugs off his necktie and black jacket, letting them slip to the floor.

“Um,” Harry croaks, high pitched. He clears his throat immediately. “Sorry. What was that?” he drawls, leaning over and placing his sweaty palms flat on the bed, stilling when Louis beams up at him. His pupils are dark saucers, a ring of bright blue around them, and his fringe is sweaty, falling across his forehead and dipping into the little white paint smeared across his face under his whiskers. His lips are stained red from the shots. Of course then Harry realises he’s half-hard in his trousers. The loose white shirt he has on isn’t long enough to cover his hard-on, unfortunately.

So he abruptly drops himself onto his stomach, mirroring Louis’ position, shivering when their arms brush.

“I said,” Louis giggles airily, tilting his head coquettishly, his raspberry vodka scented breath caressing Harry’s cheeks (Harry might pass out at this rate), “do you want to open the other bottle of tequila I have saved for nights like these?” Louis’ words are slow and garbled, whispered for some reason, but no less entrancing since Harry is unabashedly staring at the shapes he makes with his mouth. He smiles when Louis falls into another bout of giggles.

He’s so fucking cute. The cutest. There’s silver glitter sprinkled in his hair and his nails are painted black to match Harry’s. But they've already had quite enough tequila, though, and Harry knows at some point Louis' going to skip past the giggly, happy stage and into the sad and weepy one.

No more tequila. 

 _'Thriller'_ abruptly comes on from outside the door and there’s a raucous band of cheers and woops. They'll be distracted for a while then.

Harry dazedly leans in, chuckling lowly, head about to burst as he fixes his gaze on the three freckles on Louis’ cheek. “And what’s a night like this then? One where we’re dressed like the living dead and spent the entire night inhaling the jelly shots I made for the guests?” Harry smiles, purposely speaking even more slowly, even deeper, because for some reason, his messed up, foggy, alcohol infused brain thinks that might be classed as sexy—and may at least cause a dick twitch. Louis’ still listening and watching his face intently, so Harry figures he can’t be that far off.

Louis smirks. “Please, Harold,” he waves him away, rolling onto his back. “I have no regrets. I didn’t even regret one ounce of that cheap rosé either. Which was disgusting by the way. I’ll be having words with that Liam.”

Louis’ black top has rucked up past his belly button, arms strewn above his head on the pillow.

Harry's struggling to breathe.

“Agreed. Itwas gross,” Harry nods, voice breathy from mass amounts of wooziness and giddiness that have taken over every one of his senses. He inches closer, so that their noses are almost touching. Harry’s heart might actually leap out of his chest, eyelids drooping intermittently as his face hovers over Louis’, who simply gazes up at him, eyes quiet and perhaps contemplative, chest steadily rising and falling, soft tummy minutely expanding with every breath.

Louis reaches up to press the pads of his fingers to Harry’s mouth, amused. Harry wants so badly to connect his lips with his.

"Harry," he starts, but Harry can't hold it any longer.

“Who was that guy out there?” Harry asks him, unable to stop the words tumbling from his lips.

Louis stills, smile slipping. “Someone who was rude enough not to ask me if I _wanted_ his tongue slobbering all over my mouth. I did not, by the way,” he frowns.

“So, you didn’t like him?”

“No,” Louis says like it’s obvious. “And before you ask, there’s nothing going on with anyone right now. I’m free as a bird.”

“Really?” Harry wonders, eyes widening in hope, a surge of optimism, and nerve spreading though him. "You're not seeing anyone now? Not even Aiden?"

"Nope." Louis' quiet a moment, staring up at him like he's waiting for something. "Are you free as a bird, Harry?"

"If you're a bird, I'm a bird," Harry smirks, pleased with himself.

"You did not just say that." 

"I might have," Harry laughs.

Louis grins. "Oh, god." He trails off, staring at Harry's mouth seriously. "Is there really no one? No one at all?" he practically whispers.

Harry meets his gaze, eyes earnest and calm. "No one except you."

Louis' face spreads into a bashful expression, cheeks blushing, turning his head away, nose almost brushing Harry's hand that's resting atop the coats by Louis' head.

"What?" Harry laughs breathily. "Too soppy?"

"No. You're lovely," Louis says simply. 

And it's while his veins hum softly with want and adrenaline and alcohol, Harry closes his eyes, and kisses Louis.

A startled intake of breath escapes Louis lips.

Harry presses his nose into Louis' cheek, mouth seeking his, his fingers resting against the side of Louis’ clean shaven face, pushing his fringe back as he kisses him deeper. He can’t think, can’t remember anything, is only aware of the fact he’s _kissing_ Louis.

He’s finally kissing  _Louis_.

And his heart pumps erratically as his brain catches up and realises Louis is actually kissing him back. Rather vigorously, in fact, and meeting Harry with just as eager, relentless presses of their open mouths, sucking on his bottom lip as they connect again and again, nipping lightly.

At some point, Louis’ hands find their way into Harry’s hair and Harry settles his weight differently, planting himself between Louis’ legs which immediately bracket Harry’s hips like it's the most natural thing in the world. Harry’s fingers brush gently over Louis’ cheekbones, over his chin and the stubble lining his jaw, and Harry hopes his own mouth is red and raw after this, and they kiss until they have to come up for air, breathing heavily and squeezing each other’s bodies closer.

Louis buries his nose against Harry’s chaotic pulse point, breathing him in, and Harry does the same, having to check he's real, hiding in the deep dip of Louis’ collarbone, wet lips dragging across his scorching skin. Louis’ hands are still in Harry’s hair, fingers languidly stroking through the tangled strands.

And Harry’s suddenly terrified of lifting his face now, wants to know what this means. Because it means _something_. Doesn’t it? They don’t kiss to kiss. It’s never been like that with them. And yes, they’re both extremely tipsy right now, but they don’t do  _this_.

Kiss like they both want it.

Louis wouldn’t kiss Harry if it didn’t mean anything, right?

He can't believe this is actually happening. Harry could cry with relief right now.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls back, using his elbows to hold himself up as he stares down at a dazed Louis, who’s blinking up him, trepidation dotting the edges of his blue glassy eyes.

“Can I ask what we just did there?” Louis suddenly says, voice surprisingly even considering his cautious expression. “Because that was new.”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Harry whispers.

Louis stares up at him. “We’ve never done that before.”

“No, we haven’t.” Harry breaks his gaze, fixes it onto a section of his floral printed pillow, brows creasing as he waits. He feels Louis’ hands cradle his face on each side and Harry closes his eyes, can’t help but turn his mouth into his palm, nuzzling it. Louis’ hand is trembling ever so slightly so Harry kisses it.

“Did you like it?” Louis asks quietly.

Harry opens his eyes. “Did you?”

“Oi.” Louis pokes a finger in Harry’s cheek, “I asked you first,” he smirks, if a bit coyly.

Harry sighs, smiling. “I did. Yes. Very much,” he breathes with another smile. “What about you? Was that alright?” He asks, as if he were talking about something as mundane as the weather. Inside, Harry might die if Louis tells him it can’t happen again. He'll have to get out his journal and revise his plans of leaving the country, stung and destroyed by the pain of rejection.

Louis gives him a bitten smile, nodding. “Yeah.”

Thank god for that.

“Okay, good,” Harry breathes with relief, hiding his enormous grin in his shoulder, cheeks flaming. Louis isn’t faring much better. “Did you... do you want to do it again?” The words are muffled and he's lost all sense of shame. "Because I really would like—"

But Louis must have already got it because next thing he’s pulling Harry back down on top of him by the neck, pressing his lips to Harry's, lingering for a moment as time stops, and then he’s throwing his whole body into it, back arching off the bed as his mouth slides seamlessly over Harry’s, feverish and insistent, as Harry hooks a hand under Louis' thigh that grazes his side.

Harry gasps as he breaks off, dipping straight back into another desperate kiss, tongues meeting wetly, needy moans filling the quiet of Harry’s bedroom, despite the thumping music going on outside the door.

Eventually the kissing simmers down, switching to chaste pecks before Harry falls asleep properly for the first time in ages, his head resting against Louis’ chest, Louis’ arms locked firmly around Harry’s back, and with the vague memory of Louis murmuring soft words into his hair that sound a lot like _I love you_.

**

Harry slowly opens his eyes, crusted with sleepy dust in the corners, ecstatic and sated, when he remembers it's Louis clinging to his back, still in their clothes from last night, memories of soft moans and deep kisses and wandering hands floating to the surface. He yawns with a beam on his face, and cringes, mouth tasting sour and like something died in there overnight, and when he looks up at the ceiling he notices they left the light on. 

He shifts, realising with a start that he's got a raging erection. 

He’s just about to reluctantly extract himself from Louis’ warm embrace and tip toe to the bathroom when Louis stirs, his grip tightening around Harry’s middle as he mumbles, “Where do you think you’re going?”

His voice is sleep hazy and raspy, and Harry feels painfully tight in his jeans, morning wood begging for attention.

“Lou, I need the toilet,” he says, sounding strained, trying to pry Louis’ hands off his hips. They burn his skin and this really isn’t helping the situation.

"No, it's not allowed."

"Louis."

There’s a pause.

“Harry, are you hard?”

“Yes,” he admits, cheeks burning. “Need to sort it out, alright? I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Wait, no. What are you doing? Don’t go,” Louis laughs, clamping his hand around Harry’s wrist, Harry half-way off the bed, one leg still caught in the sheets that are dangling over the sides.

"The coats are gone," Harry notices, eyes widening when he realises someone must have come in to get them, and seen Harry and Louis cuddled on the bed. Louis squeezes hsi wrist tighter, bringing him back to his current problem. “I have to,” Harry whines. “Lou _, please._  I’m dying here."

Louis digs his teeth into his bottom lip, eyelids hooded as he continues to watch him, fingers pressing into Harry’s pulse point. Harry might come from the sight alone. He must  _know_ how desperate Harry is, must be able to feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. “You could—”

“Could what?” Harry’s voice sounds loud all of a sudden.

Louis’ mouth twitches. “You could sort it out here?” He says slowly, bites his lip. “I could sort it out for you.”

The air is punched out of Harry’s lungs. “What?” he says, dazed.

“Lie back down, babe, and I’ll take care of it,” he smirks, eyes warm and bright. He has a sleep crease by his mouth, his hair ruffled and soft. He looks like a gorgeously sexy hedgehog about now. That’s a weird comparison. But he does. Harry's besotted. "Just," he presses a kiss to one of Harry's love handles, "let me?"

Harry wants him so badly but his brain is moving his mouth for him. “But what if things get weird? Shouldn’t we talk about this first?” Harry reasons, even though he wants nothing more than to be closer than they've ever been. "This could get complicated, Louis."

“Harry, we snogged each other’s faces off last night. If you remember..." he says, eyeing him closely.

“I do remember,” Harry breathes.

“And you liked it, yeah?” Louis says, a little unsure. 

“More than.”

“I did, too.” Louis smiles, standing up on his knees and tugging Harry to him, hands stroking his sides comfortingly. Harry relaxes into his touch, eyes drooping. “And now I want to do this.” He leans up and kisses his neck, and Harry's head lolls to the side on an exhale.

“Are you sure?” 

“Lie down,” Louis says huskily, eyes never straying from Harry’s face. Jesus, fuck. Harry can barely breathe as he does as Louis says, moving down the bed as he gets comfy, hands either side of his body as his breathing gets steadily more ragged. Louis settles himself gently over him, and Harry must look a bit terrified because then his hands are caressing Harry’s sides again to calm him down. “Relax, love. Gonna make you feel as good as I can, okay?” There’s still a smile in his voice as Harry shuts his eyes tight, painfully hard now, and he gasps softly as Louis’ fingers unzip his jeans, tugging them down under his bum.

Harry instinctively lifts his hips up off the bed, Louis pulling his jeans down his legs and off completely, disregarding them on the floor.

The air hits him like a ton of bricks, thighs shaking with the anticipation of what Louis’ about to do, Louis kissing him down his neck.

“Okay?” Louis wonders.

“Uh huh,” Harry nods frantically, opening his eyes to find Louis’ familiar blue ones staring back at him affectionately. "Just remembered I still probably look half dead and you're wearing whiskers," he chuckles.

Louis laughs, touching his cheek. "Probably smudged them now."

"They're pretty much smudged anyway."

"You're makeup's not really as pale anymore. You're more pink and pretty now, to be honest. Pretty in pink." He tugs on the hem of Harry's shirt. "Want to take this off, love?"

"Yeah," Harry breathes, sitting up briefly and pulling it off, chucking it on the pile in the corner he's still not sorted.

Louis' lips drag across his chest, barely there, leaving sparks in their wake over his heated skin, gasping when Louis presses his palm flat over his hard length in his boxers, lying on his stomach between Harry’s legs now. There's a wet patch over the fabric already. Louis mouths at him, nose bumping his cock, that won't stop twitching, straining against the elastic.

Harry can’t believe this is real life. He’s got Louis happily lying between his thighs, for fuck’s sake. Harry won’t survive. He’s going to die before Louis even does anything.

“What are you going to—” Harry doesn’t get the chance to finish because Louis is releasing his leaking dick from his boxers and finger pressing the slit, kissing his shaft. Harry moans embarrassingly loudly.

“So pretty,” Louis murmurs, pleased at the reaction he’s extracted from Harry, working his hand steadily up and down, sliding his thumb maddeningly over the tip each time he reaches it, using the pre-come to get an easier glide down his length.

Harry’s breathing grows heavier the faster Louis' strokes get, leaving Harry squirming amongst the sheets, fists clenched and teeth digging into his bottom lip to stop the embarrassing moans fighting for release. He can feel Louis’ eyes burning into his face.

“Oh, god,” Harry moans deeply. “Lou. Louis,  _please_.”

“Okay, baby,” Louis says, voice just as affected. 

 _Baby_.

He wants Louis to call him that always.

Fuck. This is heaven. Is this heaven? Has he snuffed it because Louis has sent him into cardiac arrest? “You’re so unbelievably pretty like this, you don’t even know. I mean, you’re pretty all the time, but right now with your cheeks all blotchy and flushed... Beautiful, Harry.”

Harry whimpers, turning his face into the pillow and pants, itching to bend his legs, so lost in the maddening feel of Louis’ hand, that he’s in no way expecting Louis’ hot mouth to suddenly suck the tip and abruptly take him down his throat.

“Fuck!” he gasps.

“Is this okay?” Louis breathes as he pulls off, and Harry stares down at him, his dick stirring at Louis’ glistening red lips. He wants, wants, wants.

“Oh, my god,” Harry groans, head falling back to the pillow as his fingers find their way into Louis’ hair, rubbing at his scalp. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Louis chuckles, immediately taking him back down, the heat of his mouth  _too much._

“It’s too _..._ I can’t. It’s too much.”

Cold air hits Harry’s cock again. “Want me to stop?”

“No!” Harry tugs on his hair. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

Louis does so, alternating between taking him down, and licking at the underside, one hand massaging his balls as his other grips the base, squeezing it every so often as Harry gets louder and can’t control the desperate noises escaping his lips, which only get worse as Louis starts to suck enthusiastic bruises into his thighs.

“These are too pale. Need to be marked up, I reckon,” Louis breathes.

Harry whines softly, hand reaching down, fingers gingerly rubbing Louis' scalp.

It doesn’t take much longer until Harry feels stark heat pooling in his groin, his legs shaking uncontrollably as he struggles to stay still. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps, pulling on Louis’ hair.

But Louis stays where he is, attached to his cock and moans around it, the vibrations sending Harry hurtling over the edge and he comes with a shout, panting for air as he shudders through his orgasm, spurting down Louis’ throat, who doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps on moaning through it, swallowing, seemingly grinding into the mattress as he carries on sucking him like a lollipop.

He’s fucking obscene.

Louis pops off and tucks him back into his boxers, wiping his mouth, pleased.

His eyes are glassy and he smiles at Harry so devastatingly softly that Harry has to reach out and pull Louis bodily to him, kissing his neck in earnest as Louis lies pliant in his hold.

“That was so good,” Harry drawls, laughing when he hears Louis’ giggles in his own neck.

“God, you’re so hot.” Louis mouths along Harry’s jaw, moving closer to his mouth.

“Wait. Morning breath. I haven’t brushed my teeth.” Harry says, keeping a hand between their chests.

“I just sucked you off," Louis points out. "And swallowed."

“Good point." Harry kisses him slowly, pushing their plush, swollen lips together like puzzle pieces. "And it was so ridiculously hot," the murmurs against his mouth, the taste a bit bitter and sour, like, but Harry can’t get enough of it. “You’re an excellent kisser, did you know that?”

“I’m the best,” Louis agrees, tongue sliding over Harry’s, deepening the kiss. Wet, slick sounds fill the room. It’s music to Harry’s ears. They kiss for a couple more minutes before Harry realises Louis is still hard against his stomach.

“Shit. Do you want me to get you off, too, Lou?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Louis smirks, quickly moving to lie down on his back, blinking prettily up at him, a smug smile on his bleary-eyed face. He’s so beautiful, Harry’s a little light-headed. He takes off his long-sleeved black top and Harry's hands can't help but caress him all over, thumbs brushing his nipples. Louis shivers, and Harry smirks, climbing on top of Louis’ lap and straddling him, fingers making quick work of undoing the buttons on Louis’ jeans and unceremoniously slides a hand in. Louis breathes out, mouth hanging open as he keeps eye contact with Harry.

He’s just about to pull down Louis’ jeans properly when there’s banging on the front door.

“Shit,” Harry hisses, throwing his head back and huffing.

“Oh, god. I forgot we had a fucking party,” Louis whines, pressing his palms to his eyes. He removes his hands and stares at Harry. They both start laughing before Louis abruptly stops his breathy giggles. “Do you think anyone even realised we’d disappeared?”

“I’m more concerned about who might still be in the living room, to be honest,” Harry whispers, heart thumping at the idea that their friends have heard his loud moaning and chants of Louis’ name as he gifted him with a fantastic blowjob, and made Harry's dreams come true.

Louis gasps. “What if they heard us?” Louis eyes widen. The giggles start up again, far too hazy to worry about possible mortification right now.

“Oi, you two up yet?” Niall’s voice bellows.

“What the hell’s he doing here? It’s ridiculous o’clock in the morning,” Louis says, indignant. “Fuck off, Niall!” he yells.

“Louis!” Harry squeals, grinning widely as he covers Louis’ mouth with his hand. “It’s two in the afternoon, actually," he says, checking the clock.

“I don’t care. I want my orgasm," Louis pouts.

Harry bursts out laughing again, pushing Louis back down onto the bed and burying his open mouth in his chest. He moves further down and blows a raspberry on his soft tummy. Louis shrieks bloody murder as Harry relentlessly sucks on the skin below his belly button, blowing raspberry after raspberry, delighted with Louis’ wriggling and screaming and hysterical giggles.

“I can hear you guys laughing! Let me in. I’m desperate for a piss.”

“What’s he saying?” Louis huffs, propping himself up with his elbows, hair a mess. He's fucking gorgeous.

Harry sighs, but he’s still smiling, feeling warm and content as he gets up and pads to the door in his boxers, his hardness thankfully no longer an obvious problem as he yanks the door open and Niall instantly comes bounding in, rushing to the loo and slamming the door behind him.

When Niall comes back out to the living room, he eyes Harry and Louis warily.

“So where did you two disappear to last night?"

“Nowhere,” Harry blurts out. Louis blinks at him, a small crease between his brows. He ruffles his hair as he watches Harry expectantly. “Why are you here anyway?”

Niall shakes his head. Now that Harry really looks at him, Niall really is quite worse for wear. His eyes are still bloodshot and his _Top Gun_ uniform is rumpled like its been slept in. “You were missing until the end of the party, so I had to make everyone who was still here leave and then I got fucking locked out, didn’t I? Slept outside the goddamn door after banging for ages. God knows where you two were," he frowns, annoyed.

“Actually, we were—“

“We must have fallen asleep, sorry. We were pretty drunk last night.” Harry rushes the words, making a point to rub his makeup, rapidly mixing with sweat. He didn’t mean to interrupt Louis but his mind is all over the place, sex hazy and bursting with questions about what he did with Louis last night and what this morning means. “So drunk. Fell right asleep. Out like lights. Completely knocked out."

It’s like blind panic is driving his word vomit.

Niall stares for a moment. Harry doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him, eyes darting between himself and Louis quizzically. “Yeah, you both look a right state. Your make up is smudged as fuck.”

“Kept rubbing it off, didn’t we?” Harry says quickly to Louis, sheepishly looking away again when he sees Louis’ stony face. Harry cheeks flush. He probably appears like a deer caught in headlights, face blotchy and red and why is acting so panicky? “We were so knackered.”

“From anything in particular?” Niall raises his eyebrows, a smirk forming.

“No,” Harry splutters, just as Louis answers, “Could say that.”

Harry’s eyes widen, earning him a challenging stare from Louis. He folds his arms, turning away.

“Alight, I’m sensing tension so I’m off. Amazing party last night mates. I’ll call you,” he yawns and pads out the door.

As soon as it shuts Louis swirls around and practically glares at Harry. “What was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You! Acting like you’ve just committed a murder and are trying to cover it up.”

“What? Don’t be stupid,” Harry rolls his eyes, though he can’t stop the high flush on his cheeks, distractedly pulling on the hem of his t-shirt that he threw on.

“Oh, I’m stupid now, am I?” Louis has genuine hurt in his eyes. Harry knows him well enough to know that much.

“Are you—Lou, I don’t regret what happened, if that’s what you’re thinking?”

Louis says nothing.

“I don’t, I swear. Far from it, believe me.” He takes a cautious step forward, then another. Louis doesn’t move, eyes downcast. “I just... panicked.”

“Why?” Harry can hear the underlining trepidation in his voice.

And no.

No, Harry can’t let Louis think Harry is having second thoughts about what they’re apparently engaging in now. But he also doesn’t want to lay his heart bare and on the line, just incase Louis’ feelings aren’t as serious. He can live with what they're doing for now. This is beyond what Harry had dared to hope.

And Louis is so calm about this. Harry’s in love with him and he’s the one freaking out now that he’s hit with the reality of what's happened. Louis initiated the stuff this morning as simple as anything, completely at ease and comfortable as though they’d been doing it for years.

Harry wishes.

“Because...it’s real, isn’t it? What we did? We can’t take it back. It’s out there now. And... I’m scared you might want to.”

“Want to take it back, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers.

“Harry.”

“And anyway, like I’m going to blurt out what happened to Niall before we’ve even discussed anything properly,” Harry adds, slightly affronted that Louis didn’t already figure that out.

“Oh, yeah,” Louis grins slightly. “I'm sorry. I may have jumped to conclusions there.” He closes the unacceptable distance between them and pulls Harry into a warm hug. “I was scared when as soon as Niall implied something, you regretted it and that’s why you were fumbling.”

“I always fumble when I’m flustered. Both with words and walking. Actually, walking is pretty much a hazard anytime with me.”

“True. My very own Bambi, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Harry nods against Louis’ collarbone, kissing the spot chastely.

“Right, so after that little outburst,” Louis says, fingertips tracing Harry’s jawline, smirking when Harry shivers. “We should probably talk about last night...and this morning," he smirks, "and let me just say, I don’t regret a single thing, Harry.”

Harry’s face spreads into a wide pressed smile. “You don’t?” he murmurs quietly, hands stroking Louis’ sides.

“Not one bit,” Louis grins, stepping even closer. 

“Well, I definitely didn’t.” Harry noses at Louis’ stubbly chin. “So...what now?”

“I think we should explore this. See what happens, yeah?” Louis suggests, tone playful and lilting. "It doesn't even feel weird...it feels right."

"I think so, too." Harry bites down his beam. “Wait,” he blurts suddenly. “What if we go further and you decide you’re too freaked out and it ruins our friendship and we have to move out and we never speak again?” Harry tries to catch his breath.

“Okay, first of all, calm down, love, because in no way is any of that going to happen. And hang on, why is this only about me? What if _you_ freak out?” Louis says, offended.

“Please, that’s not gonna happen.”

“Oh, yeah?” Louis inquires, eyebrows quirked.

Uh oh, backtrack, Styles.

“Have you seen you? You’re _gorgeous_ , Lou. If we have sex, you should be more worried I’ll spontaneously combust mid-thrust or something.”

Louis bursts out a laugh, a hand clutching at his stomach. “God, Harry. Wait,” he says. Harry smiles, elated that this whole exchange is even happening, softly putting his hand atop Louis’. “What do you mean ‘if’?” he smirks.

Harry’s smile transforms into a shy giggle as he leans in for a kiss.

“So, um.” Louis nudges their hips together. “What shall we do now?”

“Well, I’m going to have a shower, and you can have one after I’ve finished,” he adds before Louis invites himself to shower with him. He just feels gross and needs to freshen up. Then he wants to have Louis all day and kiss him until their lips are chapped.

They can have the talk later.

Kissing first.

And maybe a couple more orgasms wouldn’t go a miss.

"Without me?" Louis pouts. "Was going to wash your hair for you."

"You can do that anytime," Harry grins.

**

“So, I think that went well, I must say,” Louis announces, holding back laughter and a devilish smirk with his hands planted on his hips.

It's a few days later. Bonfire Night is coming up, but it may already be here because Louis’ attempt at making dinner ended in a flaming disaster. First he forgot to put the oven _on_ and was sitting on the floor impatiently, wondering why the thing hadn’t risen yet. Then when it finally did start cooking, he burnt it. Charcoal. That was what was left of the pie. Smoke everywhere.

Harry laughed for ten minutes, on cloud nine.

Because sneaking around for all its novelty at the moment, is really fucking hot. Louis seems to think so anyway, because he's jumping on him every chance he gets like they're insatiable animals, swapping blowies and hand jobs and kissing every part of each other's bodies they can reach.

Harry still can't believe he gets to kiss Louis now, unable to stop touching him anywhere and everywhere, and places he was never allowed to go near before, happily content to let Louis' hands wander wherever they please. His gaze sticks to him now, bringing the rim of his glass to his bitten lips, gleaming crimson from both the constant gnawing from his teeth and the stain of several glasses of red wine. There’s a pleasant buzz under his skin, from the alcohol, from the few drags he had earlier and from the heat of Louis’ arm pressed to his, as they lounge with their legs curled up on the sofa, staring sightlessly as the TV.

Well, Harry is staring sightlessly. Louis might actually be watching this film. It’s terrible if Harry’s opinion is anything to go by, and besides, all he can fucking think about is sitting directly next to him.

The lights are dimmed and the sound is on a low volume, and Louis’ even breaths are stirring his insides relentlessly and he just wants to kiss him again.

But they’ve not exactly discussed the in’s and out’s of what it is they’re attempting to discover by having sex whenever the mood takes them, only that they want to figure out what this is before they start telling everyone.

Which, as it turns out, is a mood they’re both in pretty much constantly.

Except that haven't gone all the way yet.

Which is something Harry would really to change tonight.

Harry seems to be perpetually turned on, hard again in his pants and it's so stuffy, so he decides to remove his jumper, leaving him in just his transparent white shirt, sensing Louis’ eyes burning into the side of his face. He smirks before he turns to look at Louis.

Louis looks  _wrecked._

Harry has to literally swallow down a moan.

The tips of Louis' ears are pink and his forehead’s a little sweaty, glistening in the lamp’s peach hue, and his face and neck are looking particularly flushed as well.

Harry’s eyes fall to Louis’ lap where he sees his very visible hard-on, straining against his tight jeggings.

He looks back at Louis and watches as he runs light fingertips over his length, exhaling breathily with his own eyes locked on Harry’s.

“Fuck, Lou,” he breathes dizzily. He launches himself at Louis' chest and they press themselves to each other, rolling over so that Louis is lying underneath Harry, his legs spread and bending upwards, hugging Harry’s hips as their mouths crash into a dirty, wet kiss.

Harry groans as Louis starts to rut against him, feeling how hard Louis is _, god_. Harry bites down on Louis’s shoulder, who hisses, digs his teeth into the exposed skin near his collarbones. And,  _holy shit,_  his  _collarbones._

“We should play later,” Harry murmurs, breathless, dizzy and aching with how turned on he is.

“Play?” Louis lilts teasingly, the smile present in his voice. “What do you wanna play, Harry?”

“I wanna suck shots out of your collarbones.”

“Fuck, yeah, alright,” Louis gets out as Harry sucks his tongue into his mouth, a string of saliva dribbling down his chin, but he can’t even be embarrassed when Louis is suddenly saying, “But only if I can suck tequila out of your belly button.”

“Mmm, yeah. Want that. Want your mouth. Want it on my tummy, all over. Want you to leave bruises everywhere on me,” Harry babbles. “Mark me up properly. So, I’m yours.”

“So you're mine?" Louis wonders.

"Yeah, all mine. All for me."

"You’re something else,” Louis breathes into a smile. “You can be downright filthy one second, and in the next you’re the softest thing in the world,” Louis coos, smiling sunnily at him.

“I’m always soft for you. You could destroy all my things and I’d still be begging to stay in your bed with you.”

“Don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Louis winces, but his eyes are alight with mischief. 

“I didn’t say you’d break my stuff on purpose.”

“Would never.”

Ten minutes later and Louis is coaxing his chin further down to his level, sprawled out on the kitchen floor, vest soaked with alcohol and lime and salt, racked up to his sternum, the hem tucked into the wide collar as Harry sucks the salty, sweet skin of Louis' collarbone so heartily you'd think he was starving. 

It’s at that moment, their regularly visiting cat neighbour decides to make an appearance, meowing loudly, and apparently settling down for a good view of the show they’re putting on.

Harry hums. “Um, Lou,” he says as Louis smudges kiss after kiss along his jawline. “We have company.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Lima,” Louis says casually.

“Lima?”

“Named her after Liam. We talk sometimes. She comes over for tea. We bitch about you lot," he teases. "She's much harsher than me, though. Especially about Liam's dancing."

Harry stares for a moment and then falls into laughter. “Oh, my god. If he finds that out—“

“I’m very much looking forward to it,” Louis laughs. “Let’s not talk about Liam right now though, yeah, babe? Would rather make you come, if that’s alright with you.”

"Okay," Harry nods, reaching for his dick.

Louis swats at him. "Let me," he pouts.

And he launches straight for Harry’s nipple, sucking in into his mouth as his hand palms his dick. Harry moans, eyes drooping closed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

**

Another five minutes pass and Louis hasn't even got Harry's jeans down yet when the phone rings.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Harry shouts.

Louis snickers as he crawls over to the landline. “Oh,” Louis says, when he holds the phone to his ear. “They hung up.”

Their phones buzz at the same time.

“Those little shits,” Harry breathes as Louis’ face is comically furious.

“Say goodbye to our friends, Harry. I’m going to kill them to death.”

**

Another hour later and Harry is literally dying to sleep with Louis. He might pass out with how badly he wants to be inside him. Or have Louis inside himself. Any way and every way. He’s waited all this time, but enough’s enough.

The radio is turned on at a low volume in the kitchen, some slow, sultry track with breathy vocals, and Harry would be mortified if he wasn’t so mind tingling drunk, like he's making it too obvious that he really wants to have sex. But burning want pumping around his bloodstream wins over embarrassment.

Louis’ dangling his legs off the kitchen counter, still sweaty from the night’s alcohol driven antics, a glint in his eyes, face rosy with a slight blush on each cheek. He’s holding a half-empty bottle of tequila in one hand and a piece of cut lime in the other, an impish grin spreading across his face.

“Lou,” Harry drawls with a hooded smile, “what are you up to?” He slinks over to him, steps unsteady as he crashes into Louis’ chest, curling his fingers around his calves.

“I think we should do more shots,” Louis whispers, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Oh, no. More? Really?” Harry whines, but he’s smiling, gripping Louis tighter as he crowds Louis’ space further, Louis locking his thighs around Harry’s hips, bringing him forwards possessively. Harry's knees are weak. "If I'm sick later, you can hold my hair back."

“Yes, of course, darling,” Louis hiccups. “But first, I think you should fuck me.”

Harry’s breath hitches and he chokes on air. Louis laughs, patting his back. 

“Are you—are you serious? Now?”

Louis nods slowly, bites his lip before breathing, “Right here. On this counter,” into his mouth. 

“Christ, Louis.” Harry buries his face into Louis’ clammy neck, his dick stirring in his pants at the mere thought of sinking into Louis, scrunching his fists in his flimsy black vest with the words  _Skate Tough_  on the front in white lettering. He latches onto Louis' neck and kisses him for a solid ten seconds before he's then fumbling to unbutton his jeans, hastily pulling the zip down, giggling when Louis tries to help, but tickles his sides instead, shoving his shirt up and blowing a loud raspberry on Harry’s belly.

"Payback," Louis says, and Harry squeals, collapsing into more elated giggles.

“Stop it!" he yells. "I’m trying to be sexy,” Harry pouts, mouth inching close enough to kiss. So he does, giving Louis the most filthy kiss he can muster in this highly intoxicated state.

"You are sexy," Louis insists, coquettish and fidgety. "So sexy. Super pretty, aren't you?" he whispers as he pulls on a loose curl, lips sucking languidly on Harry's, and then Harry has his hands underneath Louis' thighs, wrapping Louis’ legs around him tighter as he paws at Louis’ bum.

Fuck, his cheeks fit in his palms. Harry moans out loud at the realisation and Louis moans back, deep and guttural as he continues to deeply press his mouth to Louis’, mouthing at his neck, his jaw, and biting lightly at his chin. “Fuck, Harry,” he breathes, urgent hands reaching anywhere he can.

“Louis,” is all he moans, knocking the plastic bowls off the worktop to make room for Louis to lie down on his back.

Harry immediately hoists himself up on top on him, and shoves his thigh between Louis’, hips flush against each other as they both start to rut their groins together, desperate for some friction.

Louis gasps as Harry grinds down, attaching his mouth back to Louis’, swallowing the sound as he makes desperate noises of his own with every insistent suck of Louis’ lips between his. “Oh, god,” Harry whines between kisses.

They’re actually dry humping on top of the kitchen counter, but Harry is more shocked at the fact he doesn’t seem to care they’re not exactly being hygienic right now.

But that thought’s cut off when Louis gets more flustered and starts roaming his hands underneath Harry’ shirt, impatient.

Harry sinks his teeth into Louis' bottom lip, smug when Louis’ breath hitches as Harry pulls back off, panting a bit and pupils blown as Harry slowly slides Louis off the counter, playfully nipping at his tummy, moving up to mouth along the base of his throat, blindly lifting his bum and picks him up under his thighs.

“What are you doing?” Louis complains.

“I need lube. So we’re going to the bedroom. Maybe I’ll fuck you on this after,” Harry smirks.

“After? We’re gonna do it more than once tonight, are we?” Louis tilts his head, eyes sparkling as his hands slide up Harry’s back. 

“If I have anything to do with it, then, yeah,” Harry nods, smiling breathlessly.

Harry carries Louis to his bedroom bridal style, Louis hanging onto his neck and unable to stop laughing as he unbuttons Harry's shirt with great difficulty, hands still slippery from tequila and lime juice, which only makes Harry laugh more. 

But as soon as Harry lowers Louis gently down on the bed, the air seems to change, desire taking over everything else, heart beating furiously, but he's not nervous now, only fueled by his restless, feverish need for Louis, so fucking overwhelmed that it's actually mutual, and wastes no time in crawling on top of him, jeans still pooled around his ankles. He kicks them off frantically, shirt hanging open and gasps when Louis attaches his mouth firmly to one of his nipples, sucking hard, nipping lightly on the bud. Harry topples onto all fours, head hanging down as he moans helplessly with Louis underneath him.

Louis knocks him down, and lies on top of him, ridding Harry of his shirt as he sucks his nipple into his mouth. "Louis. Shit," he moans, fingers scrunching in the strands of Louis' soft hair. He smells of lime and sweat and his natural muskiness. Harry wants to taste every inch of him for hours.

After another minute or so, he can’t take it anymore, being driven crazy by the swirl of Louis' insistent tongue. He’s too sensitive, shivering every time Louis’ teeth scrapes at his skin. He abruptly flips over, taking Louis with him by his soft hips.

"Get these off," Harry says breathlessly, tugging on Louis' jeggings. Louis whips them off in record time, Harry immediately buries his face in Louis’ groin. “Fuck, Louis. I’ve waited so long for this. You have no idea.” He brushes his lips across his hipbone, and sinks his teeth into Louis’ inner thigh, soothing the skin with wet kisses.

“Harry,” Louis groans. “God.” He grips Harry’s hair tightly as Harry hisses, Louis pulling on a strand a bit too roughly. But he likes it, likes the sharp edge of brief pain, can barely see past the thick haze of his arousal, so hard he might come as soon as his head catches on Louis’ rim the way things are going.

Pressing one more kiss to his left thigh, he pulls off Louis' boxers and nuzzles close to Louis’ leaking cock, resting against his stomach and angry red. “Hang on. Want to try something,” Harry murmurs, hooking his hands under Louis’ trembling thighs that are coming up in goosebumps, and shoves a pillow under Louis’ hips. He throws Louis’ legs over his shoulders as he crouches down between them.

Louis’ quiet breaths are coming quick and strenuous, eyes hooded as he watches Harry with hungry eyes, settle onto his stomach, the pads of his fingers pressing into the warm flesh of Louis’ cheeks as he spreads them apart.

“Oh, my god,” Louis says loudly, catching on to what Harry wants to do. “Harry, I might come soon, I’m not joking. Been hard all evening,” he practically whimpers. "I won't last."

"It's fine. Want to make you come as many times as you want," he says, sucking another bruise into his thigh.

"Fucking god, Harry," Louis groans just before Harry shoves his face into his cheeks and tentatively pushes his tongue inside. Louis jolts, harshly tugs on the sheets either side of him, hips lifting off the bed as he gasps. Harry holds him still as he licks a long stripe over his reddened entrance, spurred on by the desperate whimpers Louis’ making.

“Okay?” he murmurs to check in. Louis just whines, nodding eagerly, pushing his bum further into Harry’s face, thighs clenching on top of Harry’s shoulders.

Harry’s more than happy with that reaction, diving back in and lapping at Louis’ hole vigorously.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis says, voice muffled, face turned into the pillow. He won’t stop moaning, and Harry has to squeeze his base to stop from coming already, the sounds travelling straight to his cock. “Harry, please. Get in me.” He sounds almost annoyed which stutters a breathless laugh out of Harry’s lungs.

“Okay, baby,” Harry whispers, pressing one more kiss to Louis’ quivering hole, wet with his spit. “Gonna open you up now, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, _please_.”

Harry drops Louis’ legs with a bounce onto the bed, crawling over to the bedside drawers to get the lube. The snick of the bottle opening makes Louis’ head snap up, eyes locking intently with Harry’s, before they close and Louis’ laughing breathily as he tips his head back. “This is fucking... I don’t even know. But it's awesome.”

“Gonna be so good for you. I promise,” Harry smiles in earnest, voice hoarse. He can't resist giving Louis another deep kiss and Louis spreads his legs as Harry sits on his knees, lubing up his fingers and stroking one gently over his hole, pushing in and stroking his hot, slick walls.

Harry scissors him open with two fingers, loving the way Louis’ desperately grinding down on them, neck bared and back arching perfectly as he crooks them at another angle.

And, God, he’s so fucking beautiful. Harry can’t think properly, driven only by his heightened need to have Louis closer, more intimately than he’s ever had him before.

“Okay, okay, Harry. Cock. Need you in me. Come on,” Louis babbles, high-pitched and fringe sticking to his forehead. Harry adds a third finger instead, making sure he’s as ready as he can be, Louis pushing back on them again. "Harry."

He wipes his fingers off on the bed spread and with shaking fingers rids himself of his own boxers, hissing sharply when the fabric catches on his head. He tears open the wrapper and rolls the condom down his length and slicks it up with a bit more lube.

Louis sits up and guides Harry to his entrance, getting half way in his lap, Harry’s hands supporting his waist. “Fuck, you’re so big,” Louis moans gruffly as Harry sinks slowly into his boy, still wearing his _Skate Tough_ vest. It's so hot. He’s panting as Louis grips onto his shoulders and raises himself on his cock, grinding down, gathering up a steady rhythm, and then Harry’s coaxing Louis onto his back, hands either side of his face as he thrusts into him deep and slow, keeping it up until his hips start snapping faster when Louis’ hands decide to knead at his bum, pushing him down harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Louis’ chanting, as Harry’s hips slap into flesh, faster, faster, clutching Louis to him like he might float away if Louis isn’t anchoring him to the bed, driving inside deeper, deeper, alternating between long, slow drags. He keeps dipping back down to kiss him, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in again, Louis keening each time he does.

He’s so noisy. Loud, loud, loud. Harry loves it.

“Yes, baby, so fucking good.” Louis releases a choked moan as Harry hoists him up the bed, his thrusts in time with Harry thumbing Louis’ nipple. "Yeah, that's it. God, you're so good, so good." Louis’ hisses, mouth falling open, eyes slipping closed, and his cheeks flushed a blotchy pink, hair a sweaty mess. Harry knows he looks exactly the same. Probably worse. Maybe they should think about a mirror.

Louis digs his nails into Harry’s back. “Harder, Harry,” he instructs, burying his face in Harry’s sticky neck, hidden by his hair. Harry grips onto Louis’ thighs and tangles them around his waist, pushing in further still as his hands grip the headboard, bed rocking with them. The sound of their skin slapping together in the otherwise quiet room is nothing short of obscene, their breaths growing more laboured, their moans increasingly throatier.

“I’m so close, Lou,” Harry whines, that coil of heat getting tighter, wound like a bowstring as he climbs higher to release, eyes squeezing shut as he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, thrusts relentless.

“Me too,” Louis pants, attempting to bring Harry's face to his in a messy, uncoordinated kiss, too focused on keeping up their movements.

"You can come for me, baby," he murmurs. "Come on.”

“Can’t,” Louis breathes, blunt nails dragging down his back. "You come."

Harry pulls Louis back up into his lap again and fucks up into him, hitting his spot as accurately as he can, over and over, mind blanking out. Harry has one hand on one of Louis' hips, bouncing him on his cock, Louis pushing down in little figure eight rotations as he uses the other to give Louis’ own hard cock a few sharp tugs.

“Louis,” Harry whines, desperate now as his hips begin to slow down but continue to fuck lazily into him, mouth hanging open as his body starts to seize up, barely registering Louis coming between their chests, hot and sticky, smearing Louis' vest as they move erratically with each other.

A broken sob escapes Harry’s lips as his mouth finds Louis’, panting into it as he spurts into the condom, arms wrapping tightly around Louis’ waist, squeezing his body close with the aftershocks. 

"Jesus Christ," Harry groans, collapsing backwards, Louis falling on top of him, limp and lithe and reaching for Harry's nearest hand, fumbling until their fingers intertwine. 

"Louis, will do," he breathes predictably. 

"You need new jokes," Harry chuckles, reaching down to remove the condom and chucks it into the bin beside his bed with a great amount of effort. "Ugh, that was hard. Give me a kiss for my troubles, please?" Louis happily gives him a kiss for his troubles. Harry grins up at him, sated and feeling fucking euphoric. 

"You're one to talk. Your jokes are all knock-knock ones."

"You love them really."

"I do," Louis agrees, exhaling.

“I can’t move,” Harry says, still breathing heavily as he stares up at the ceiling, the hand that’s not holding Louis’ tracing circles into Louis’ shoulder blade.

“I can’t believe that’s what we’ve been missing this whole time. Imagine all the sex we could have had in our dorm room.” Louis sits up languidly, removing his vest to wipe at Harry's chest.

Harry pouts at the reminder, and Louis laughs, cooing as he kisses him some more, tongue licking inside and deepening it. Harry moans softly into it, hands moving up to cradle his face, legs tangled together, feeling Louis’ smile against his bitten lips.

He loves him more than he ever thought possible. And the words are teetering on the tip on his tongue.

_Just there._

"What are you thinking about? You look very pensive," Louis says, kissing his chest.

Harry meets his gaze, pressing his lips together. "That I love you so much."

"I love you so much," Louis says back automatically, eyes fucking sparkling like a swimming pool in the sun.

"Yeah, I know, but like—"

Of course then the door bell decides to ring. Harry sighs.

"Oh, that might be the pizza we ordered over an hour and a half ago," Louis realises. "I have a good mind to complain at the lateness but if they'd interrupted _that_ , I'd never eat pizza again out of spite."

A bark of laughter escapes Harry's mouth, hand falling to his chest and coming away sticky.

The door bell rings again.

"You getting it, or me?" Louis says, lying back down.

"I will. I'm slightly less messy than you are," he smirks, eyes lingering on Louis' come shiny belly, and reluctantly crawls off the bed and whips on a hoodie and joggers, running to the door with his wallet.

That too, is a hell of an effort so Louis gives him another kiss, then another, and then they settle down to eat their pizza in bed, chatting like they haven't just fucked each other's brains out, and then take a long shower.

Together.

**

It’s Saturday, and it’s also Bonfire Night.

The gang is all at a fireworks display at the park, hotdogs in gloved hands, and sipping on a beer or two in plastic cups, waiting for the show to start, a dummy of Guy Fawkes on a stake, hiked up on an impressive, blazing fire in the middle of the green, the wrapped up crowd and wintry market stalls surrounding it. Harry's got a stick of candyfloss, letting it dissolve on his tongue.

He would literally rather ditch and go home and eat Louis out instead. But apparently it’s frowned upon to say out loud, as he was informed by Liam’s horrified face. “There are kids here, Harry, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oops,” Harry cringed. Still, though, it’s the truth. “Sorry.”

“Hi,” Louis greets now, nosing Harry’s cheek, all wrapped up snug in his big coat and a blue beanie.

He’s texting, and Harry tries to distract him by smothering his face in sticky candyfloss kisses, Louis attempting to keep his eyes on his phone, cheeks twitching with happiness. He can see out of his peripherals, Perrie and Niall murmuring things to each other, knowing they're gossiping about him and Louis. They haven't outright asked explicitly about them yet, but he's sure they're being pretty obvious about it. If the comment earlier was anything to go by.

Harry's so happy.

Until his eyes catch the name of the person Louis' messaging. Harry's stomach drops. “Aiden?” Harry reads out over his shoulder. “Why are you messaging Aiden again when you’re fucking me?” Harry says, tone accusatory, eyes wide and aghast, brows pulling together in distress. A firework screeches into the sky and explodes, a rainbow pallet of bright light illuminating Louis' stunned face.

He didn't quite mean for it to come out like that, but his brain has no filter when it comes to Louis.

Louis is speechless for a moment, but Harry doesn’t wait around for his response, bile climbing up his throat and tears already stinging his eyes. The fucking smoke doesn’t help, and he stalks off, jumping each time a firework goes off. Fuck, he hates those fucking things.  

“Harry, wait up! Please, hang on. Jesus, you know my legs are shorter than yours. Let a man keep up?” Louis' frantic voice calls.

“What?” Harry asks reluctantly, swirling around. "Just say it, Louis," Harry says, resigned. "Get it over with. You'd rather stay friends, wouldn't you?" He sniffs, hates the way his voice breaks on the last word. He just wants to _go_. Get away from this complicated mess. To try and forget why it is he’s in love with the boy in front of him so badly.

Which is fairly impossible, anyway. But Harry’s always up for a challenge, however pointless.

He thought they were a thing? He just assumed they were exclusive because it’s Louis. He didn’t think he needed to ask him not to keep his options open anymore. Harry’s heart plummets. Oh, shit. Louis' getting back with him, isn’t he? He thinks what they did last night (three times) was a mistake, and all those other times, too. It’s not Harry he wants. He wants to keep their friendship, and he still loves him, blah, blah, blah. Well, it’s a bit fucking late for that now.

Okay, so Harry still hasn’t told him he’s in love with him, but fuck.

“Fuck, okay. I’m just gonna have to say it and hope you won’t be too mad at me, alright?” Louis says, face etched in terror. He exhales heavily. “I wasn't actually dating Aiden,” he rushes out. “I mean, I was at first, but it was barely even a thing. It was like... three dates, if that, but we’re still friendly. Well. We were friends more than anything, anyway and well, I carried on pretending to go out with him as a favour to him. Not that you knew much, only when I brought up the double date. I was planning on telling him I'd prefer to see him as a friend, before our housewarming, but he convinced me to keep it up a bit longer. Tom was at the party, too, you see."

Harry blinks, the world is spinning and he’s straining to listen to every word that slips out of Louis’ mouth, incase he’s heard wrong, bewildered. “See, he was trying to make Tom jealous and well, it worked it seems. That's what the texts were about. He was letting me know. Because after Tom went out with you after—”

"Are you serious, right now?” Harry stares at Louis with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

Because _what?_

Louis nods, sheepish. “I thought I should try dating someone else. Give someone else a chance, and Aiden was there,” he says, quiet and unsure. “I just wanted to see,” he whispers. “It was stupid, anyway. It didn't work."

“What do you mean _someone else_? You haven’t dated anyone properly in like, over a year. Maybe more than that, actually, before you started seeing him? Right?”

”I thought it might help me to get over it...” Louis stares at Harry with an intensity and focus that has Harry weak in the knees.

His whole body feels like jelly.

Is he saying...

Does he love him, too?

Is Louis in love with Harry?

“Get over what?” Harry breathes.

His heart is beating so furiously his chest might explode. It hurts, his pulse thumping in his throat painfully.

Louis visibly swallows, taking a breath.

“You.”

“Me?” is all he can muster, incredulous. 

Because what? _Harry_ is what Louis needed to get over?

Harry?

“I thought going out with him might help me get over you. But then, when I saw your reaction to him... I just wanted to know if you were jealous because you had feelings for me. Like, _more.”_

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just ask, you idiot? You didn’t _say_ anything, Louis,” he says, a shot of anger rising to the surface. “You just let me believe you were actually still going out with him on that date again?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," Louis pleads. "I swear I didn’t know how you felt until recently! With the, you know, all the sex,” he chuckles nervously. “You know, and with the voicemail? I was waiting for you to say something. But you didn't. But I knew you were jealous, and I suspected you felt more than you were letting on, but I thought it was just because you were used to taking up all my time. I didn’t think it could be because—”

“Because I have real feelings for you? When did you realise? Before or after you sucked me off?” Harry grumbles.

“Oh, mate, come on,” Louis sighs, covering his eyes with his palm. 

"Don't 'mate' me," Harry snaps. "I literally had my tongue in your arse three hours ago!"

Louis bites his lip, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry. I'm a prick.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not a prick. Don’t say that,” Harry frowns, voice firm. "I'm sorry I freaked out just now. I just...I love you so much. I wish we'd both said something sooner."

“Why didn’t _you_ say anything, though?” Louis says, hesitant, eyes glassy. "Especially over the last few days?"

“And be the shittiest friend in the world? I didn't know how you felt, and I thought I'd ruin our friendship! This is so important to me, Louis. I was so scared of losing you, and for all I knew, you were hung up on someone else. And then when you kissed me back, I still didn't say anything because I was worried I’d scare you off with the extent of my feelings, and I guess... a part of me was a bit scared you might only be using me as a rebound,” he shrugs. That’s not actually true, but he’s feeling vulnerable right now. 

“Oh, come off it, Harry! When did it ever look serious to you? When did I ever make it sound like I really liked him? I barely even kissed him in front of you! And you? A rebound? Please! You’re the most incredible person in the world. How could you ever be that, Harry? Especially for me?"

Looking back, Louis did seem pretty indifferent towards Aiden romantically, save for some friendly behaviour involving occasional touches and quick hugs, which were probably the more genuine things. Aiden was the one doing the work. 

And now he knows why. Because Aiden was trying to make Tom jealous. Meanwhile Harry was the one going insane with jealousy about Louis. He supposes he should actually thank Aiden, really. Or Harry might not have realised for ages that he’s in love with Louis, and he really has been hostile towards him. Harry feels quite bad about that.

Harry stares at the ground.

“You know that night I came home having missed _Friends_ night? Aiden brought you up. He said it was obvious you had feelings for me and that I was in love with you. But I didn’t think it could be true. I was so terrified of doing anything about it incase I was wrong and I ruined everything.”

"I thought that about you as well, you idiot.” Harry folds him arms, frustrated that they couldn't just communicate. But fear will do that you.

“But even if you had said something earlier," Louis says, taking a step forward and clasping Harry's gloved hand, "it would never have ruined anything, would it? I love you, Harry,” he breathes. “I love you the most and I always, always will. I'm in love with you. You’re the only one. There’s never going to be anyone else but you.”

Harry stands there in silence, meeting Louis' wet gaze, hands trembling, his own eyes wide and shiny, his thunderous heartbeat wedged at the back of his throat at finally hearing the words he'd wished so badly that Louis would say, and now's he's saying them.

It's a fucking lot.

"I’d never leave you. I literally can’t not have you in my life. Harry... you’re my best friend, first and foremost, and I need you in whatever form that takes. Although, if I get to kiss you and stuff, too... well, I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t prefer that. A lot,” he giggles.

"I'm in love with you too, Louis. You know that, right? I'm so in love with you, it's been driving me mad. That night of the housewarming party... it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I've been suffering ever since," he smirks, eyes looking down, cheeks flushed. "I've been besotted with you since you tried to eat my burger while I was still eating it myself."

"Ditto," Louis grins.

Harry's smirk stretches into a broad beam, before he surges forward to draw Louis’ neck towards him, crashing his lips into Louis’ and kissing him hard, slotting their open mouths together wetly on a sharp inhale.

Their mouths meet again, and again, and again, until they’re gasping, plush lips brushing and dragging over each other’s jaws, chins, cheeks, and Harry feels like he’s drowning and coming home at the same time. Feverish, desperate kisses are pressed and peppered and sucked, teeth gently nipping and tongues gliding curiously as they cling to each other’s shoulders and waists, tentative, gentle fingers caressing the other like fragile glass, like they can’t believe this is real.

People are probably going to complain about the two guys groping in the middle of a family fireworks display, but whatever.

When they finally part, breathing heavily, and eyes still closed, their noses brush, and Louis nuzzles his face into Harry’s cheek, a bitten, beaming smile curving his swollen red lips.

“Oh, my God,” Harry breathes, feeling weightless and like he just inhaled half a ton of helium. 

“I know,” Louis giggles, Harry burying his face in the junction of Louis’ neck, inhaling his scent deeply, even though smoke is mostly what's about, gripping onto Louis tightly as though he’s afraid he'll evaporate into a dream or a puff of smoke if he loosens his hold on his boy.

His wonderful, lovely, beautiful boy.

“Why haven’t we been doing this the whole time? Because I’ve been thinking, and I think I’ve wanted to do this the _whole_ time. Like all throughout uni,” Harry admits, a stab of regret and sadness piercing him at the wasted time. 

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, anything.”

“So have I,” Louis smiles sheepishly.

“What?” Harry’s eyes widen with incredulity. “You’ve wanted... _this..._ the whole time?”

“Pretty much ever since we quickly kissed for a joke that night before our first Christmas break.”

"Oh, my god? What? When the fuck did _that_ happen?" Harry exclaims, eyes widening. He doesn't remember that, at all? He definitely would have remembered that?

Louis meets his eyes. They’re sparkling. Harry loves him. “And maybe a bit before that too. I mean, I had eyes. You were this gorgeous fluffy adorable thing and I was kind of obsessed with you from the first second, Harry. But then we went home for Christmas, and you were so drunk that you didn't remember," Louis says a tad sadly, "and so I swore I'd be your best friend instead,” he smiles ruefully. "And hoped maybe one day you'd fall in love with me," he laughs.

"Well, it's your lucky day, Louis Tomlinson," Harry beams.

**

They couldn't wait, and now they're half-naked in Harry's car, the heater on, and the windows fogged up in the back end of the car park.

Harry scrunches up a hand in Louis’ hair, the other gripping the back of his neck and pulling him back into his space, licking into his mouth, needing to steal the breath from Louis’ lungs and use it for his own, scrambling to sit back and lean against the window, Louis falling half off the leather seat.

It’s kind of really uncomfortable in this tight fit, and their legs are cramped and awkwardly placed but still Louis kisses him back hungrily, deeply, tongue demanding entry into Harry’s open mouth.

Sweet Jesus, kissing Louis is something Harry can’t get enough off, feeds off every slide and press and insistent suck of his lips, addicted to every jolt of arousal it’s sending through his tightly wound body. Harry’s lips feel puffy and raw, sucks getting wetter and saliva smeared all over their mouths, but if anything it just makes Harry want more, feel more hungry for it, meeting Louis’ hot mouth and swallowing every pretty moan that escapes his throat.

He’d be quite happy to stay attached to Louis’ lips forever, thanks.

Tipping his head back, he's panting for air now as Louis mouths at Harry’s neck, and he moans, fighting to stay above the surface as he drowns deeper with the feverish suction of Louis’ lips at his nape, moving down to his shoulder as he pushes his open shirt off more, exposing his shoulder, kissing it with little sweet pecks.

Harry feels sticky with cold sweat and at the same time his skin feels like it’s on fire, every purposeful touch burning him as Louis’ fingers dig and bury into the softness of his flesh, hands pressing at the small of his back, purposefully running up and down, asking a silent _more_.

Fuck, he needs more. He can’t wait until they get home.

Harry grips Louis’ sides. “Get your clothes off,” he mumbles, breathless against his lips. “All of ‘em.”

“You wanna do it here?” Louis laughs. "Harry, you naughty minx. That's semi-public sex."

“Yeah,” Harry nods eagerly, grinning. “Want you. Can’t wait,” he says before kissing him again, dirty and wet. “Need you in me. Right now,” he demands. “Take your clothes off.”

Louis looks completely wrecked, face flushed and hair in disarray. He’s ridiculously fucking hot.

Harry can't believe he's his.

Louis lets out another startled laugh, but hastily pulls off his shirt comically fast and his hands instantly unzip his jeans, struggling to wriggle them off in the tiny space. Harry cackles as he tries to help him, and then they move onto Harry, which is even worse. His freakishly long limbs are everywhere and they’re so worked up in their half-mad, lust driven, crazily-in-love-with-each-other haste, Harry’s foot somehow kicks Louis in the face.

“Ah!” Louis screams, falling off the leather seat between Harry’s spread legs. “Your toe went directly in my fucking eye. I’m blind. I can’t see, Harry!” He clutches at his face, groaning. “Your fucking big toe’s blinded me,” he screeches.

"I'm sorry! It's in dark in here! I can't see a thing!" Harry can’t stop laughing, guffawing and bends over, clutching at his stomach until it hurts, as Louis pouts up at him, frowning deeply as Harry takes his face in his hands, and brushes kisses softly around the skin of his eye. “Poor baby. I’m sorry,” he coos, unable to control his soft, fond stare. “My big toe’s sorry, too.”

"Shut up," Louis giggles airily, squirming away from his hold. Harry just grips him tighter, beaming.

“Alright, come 'ere.” Louis kisses him and settles between Harry’s spread legs. He grabs the bottle of lube with great difficulty from Harry’s bag on the floor and slicks his fingers up.

Meanwhile Harry can’t fucking stay still. He just wants Louis back, wants him inside.

Louis fingers him open, slowly adding another finger, then a third, until Harry is squirming on the seat, pushing back on Louis’ fingers impatiently.

“Okay, I’m ready. Do me,” Harry babbles.

Louis laughs airily, and he can hear him rip the condom wrapper, Harry jolting when another firework goes off then. The others are going to be wondering where they are, but if they come anywhere near the car park soon, it’s going be quite evident from the fogged up windows and the car rocking back and forth.

Oh well.

When Louis finally pushes past his rim,  hands resting on Louis’ shoulders, Harry moans gutturally, loves the feeling of being stretched open from Louis’ thick cock and his body taking him so easily, loves that it burns just a tiny bit, making it feel all the more intense.

His legs lock around Louis’ waist as best he can in the cramped space, toes curling as Louis starts moving as soon as he bottoms out, thrusts quick and fast almost immediately, like they both can’t wait a second longer.

“Okay?” Louis breathes, burying his face in Harry’s neck, one foot braced on the floor.

“Oh, fuck, Louis. God, you’re so fucking good, baby,” Harry murmurs, breathing heavily as his hands card through Louis’ hair, breath hitching when he closes his mouth over one of Harry’s stiff nipples in time with a deep thrust. His grip on his hair tightens as he tips his head back, squirming at the sensitivity and hitting his head on the car door.

His eyes fall shut as Louis drives deeper, harder, mouth agape as loud moans slip past his bitten lips, Louis’ grunts and pants in his ear turning him on even more.

The car is creaking and rocking with them as their bodies move with each other, thrusts frantic and frenzied, fervently chasing their climax, mouths open and just rubbing together messily, too weak to kiss properly anymore, hips only rocking feverishly.  

It probably looks obscene and bloody ridiculous to any poor witnesses. 

“Fuck,” Louis moans. “Harry.”

Harry’s legs fall open and Louis hoists him up, short pumps rocking into him as Harry’s arms hold on to him in a death grip.

Harry whines, feeling like his body is about to snap. “I’m gonna come, Lou.” He can’t stop moaning. Louis isn’t much better.

Then Louis’ tugging on Harry’s cock between them, once, twice and Harry's painting both their chests, Louis following only a few more thrusts after, keening high in his throat as he falls forwards and pants for breath in the crook of Harry's neck.

“Shit,” Louis breathes. “How does it keep getting better and better?”

“I know,” Harry slurs, chest heaving and eyes struggling to stay open. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“I love you, too,” Louis smiles lazily, lifting his head up.

“Better move. You’re driving home. The firework display’s about to end, love. Chop, chop.” He chuckles exaggeratedly, eyes still closed, and they’re covered in cold sweat and come and the car is probably going to smell of sex for a week, but Harry feels so completely buoyant.

“Alright, give us a minute to get my breath back, will you?” Louis chides, tickling his love handles.

Harry giggles and opens his eyes, dazed and spent. “I’m so happy.”

“You should be. That was some of my best work,” Louis retorts.

“Lou,” he whines, grinning.

Louis smiles brilliantly at him, fond.

“You make me so, so happy and I love you even though you smell really sweaty right now,” Louis says, smudging a kiss on Harry’s jawline. He pulls out and cringes as he folds the condom back in the wrapper, and then he’s glancing up, eyes going comically wide. “Oh, shit, the guys are coming over!”

“Fuck!” Harry screeches, the two of them scrambling for their clothes, laughing hysterically together as Louis tries to shove on his pants while on his back. Instead, he falls under the front seat.

Too late.

The pad of someone’s finger draws a large heart in the condensation of the window from outside, and a burst of collective laughter rings out as fireworks screech and explode in bursts of bright light.

“You dirty bastards!” Niall's voice bellows, cackling. “About time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are so appreciated, you don't even know!! Love and cookies! :) xx
> 
> Here's the [tumblr](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/153903016881/skin-new-hands-true-my-hands-all-over-you-by) post if you would like to reblog it :)


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